The Genesis Variant
by Moonshayde
Summary: Dean manifests wings for the first time, which complicates the case the brothers are investigating. First story in the Playing the Angel series. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

Series: _Playing the Angel_ - While Sam and Dean continue fighting to prevent the Apocalypse, Dean inexplicably manifests a pair of wings. The brothers must work together to figure out what is happening and reverse the act before the changes overtake Dean completely.

A/N: This series is obviously AU, but will follow show canon as closely as possible. Each story can be read as stand alones, but it might make more sense together. I may occasionally post out of order. There will be some stories that are Dean/Jo, but I'll label those separately. You don't have to read those to follow the gen storyline.

Disclaimer: _Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke and co. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author. This is for entertainment purposes only; no financial profit has been gained from this story. This story is not mean to infringe upon the rights of the above-mentioned establishments._

_

* * *

  
_

Chapter 1

It happened on Tuesday, November 04, 2008, at about 11:37 PM. Dean didn't know it at the time, but that night would forever change the course of his life, and that of his brother.

_Tuesday, November 4, 2008 – earlier that day_

Sam slammed shut the driver side door. He didn't bother to wait for Dean as he headed to the small café.

Since their encounter with the angels, Dean had become sullen and cranky. He had complained about the case. He had complained about the motel. He had complained about the food and the coffee. He hadn't even wanted to drive.

If anyone had the right to complain, it was Sam. He was the one who had always been faithful. He was the one who prayed every day. And for what? The angels he had met were the farthest thing from what he'd imagined them to be.

Sam hadn't even attempted to address the accusation Uriel had laid against Dean about his memories of Hell. As much as Sam wanted to ask Dean, he couldn't with his brother acting like a bitch over every little thing.

He entered the café and quickly found the nearest waitress. He gave her a gentle smile as he flashed her his fake ID.

She lowered her coffee pot and frowned. "Detective Tate?"

"I'm here about the two recent murders outside of Devil's Creek."

She fell quiet and shifted her weight, but said nothing.

"I'm sure you've heard about it," Sam said. He reached into his trench coat, grabbed his notepad, and unfolded a copy of the local newspaper. "Two young girls, one strangled, the other cut up and mutilated on a slab of stone in the woods outside of town."

The waitress nodded and held the pot a little closer as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes, right. I heard about it. Whatever I can do to help, I will, but I don't know much about those people."

"Really? Because the papers confirmed what Sheriff Johnson already told me: you were good friends with the girl who was strangled."

The waitress shifted her weight again, her nervous gaze darting from Sam as he scribbled in his notepad to some invisible spot on the wall. He finished writing his unintelligible marks to stare her in the eyes.

"I-I don't know much about what Cheryl was doing out there. She was hanging out with some weirdos. I told her to stop, but she wouldn't listen." She glanced back to the kitchen. "I should get back."

Sam grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Why do I get the impression you're lying to me?"

"Why would I lie?"

"I don't know," Sam said, never breaking his gaze. "Why would you?"

Her breath hitched, just slightly, but he could see in her eyes that there was much more to her story. Sam was certain she was about to break when Dean burst through the doors.

Both Sam and the waitress turned to watch him enter. He seemed off-kilter, his gait unsteady as he rolled his shoulders back, over and over again. His nose was red, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes were unfocused and glassy. Sam pondered whether Dean had been drinking again.

"Detective Rockenfield." Dean withdrew his badge and gave it a sloppy wave before he slid it back into his pocket. "You've already met my partner?"

"Yes," she said. "And I just told him all I know." She looked over their shoulders. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to help some customers."

After she gave them a definitive glare, she brushed past them. Dean's gaze lingered a little too long, and Sam saw his worn face break into a mischievous grin.

Sam clenched his jaw and stared over Dean's head. "Thanks for that."

"Oh, come on. This is pointless." Dean winced and rolled his shoulders again. "You and me both know she ain't talking. Damn Satanists."

"She's our best link to the ritualistic death that happened in the woods." Sam took a step closer and lowered his voice. "We need to know what this town is hiding and if it's linked to Lilith."

"Good job with that, Colombo."

Sam swallowed hard and chose to ignore the comment. He wasn't sure what was with Dean lately, but since the ghost sickness episode, and maybe even before that, he just seemed so detached from hunting. Not from hunting monsters or ghosts or anything random, but from hunting demons and Lilith. That detachment only seemed to intensify and exacerbate the distance Sam sensed was growing between them.

"Whatever's going on, we need to get to the bottom of it," Sam said. "Did you talk to the deputy?"

"Nah, he wasn't around."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but stopped and wrinkled his nose. "Dude, have you been drinking?"

Dean scowled and took a step back, as if offended by the accusation. "I don't drink on the job."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"That don't count. Ghost sickness, dude. That totally wasn't me."

Sam nodded, but didn't believe him. There was a distinct…something wafting around Dean like bad perfume. He wasn't sure whether Dean was popping mints to hide his drinking or using some other method, but the smell was overwhelming.

Sam tried to block out the smell as he eyed the waitress behind the counter. "We could wait until her shift ends and jump her."

Dean stared at him.

"What?"

Dean shrugged. "You're just usually a little more subtle."

"We don't have time to wear the kid gloves, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean winced again and rolled his shoulders.

Sam watched him fidget. While Dean had never been one to keep still, his constant restlessness was starting to unnerve Sam. He kept thinking back to what Uriel had said.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asked.

"What?" Dean's tone was full of exasperation. He looked away, as if distracted by something unseen, and squirmed again. He stopped at the menu on the wall. "Corn dogs."

"Dean."

"Satanists don't get this sloppy," Dean said, turning back to him with another shake of his shoulders. "This case ain't for us."

"But that sigil was legit."

"So? Some amateur got lucky."

"Ritualistic murders."

"Don't mean it's supernatural."

Sam frowned. "Are you actively avoiding this case?"

"I'm heading back to the car," Dean said abruptly. And just as suddenly, he marched out of the café.

Sam gaped at him. He found himself immobile as he watched Dean ram into the diner's door and practically run to the Impala. After he pocketed his notepad, Sam started after him, mentally keeping track of the waitress and her wary look as he passed. When he reached the outside, Dean was already seated in the passenger's side of the Impala with his right hand stretched over his head as it reached down his back.

"What are you doing?"

Dean winced again.

That was when Sam realized that Dean was scratching. "You have a rash?" Sam felt his stomach bottom out. He tried to block out the events of the past month as he swallowed down the anxiety that he felt fluttering inside. "What kind of rash?"

"I dunno. I'm just friggin' itchy." Dean squirmed in his seat and changed hands. "It won't go away."

Sam flung the driver's side door open and hopped into the seat next to Dean. He felt helpless as he watched Dean fidget in the passenger's seat, struggling to find a comfortable position as his hands tag-teamed whatever was bothering him on his back.

"I know what you're thinking and no, it's not the damn ghost sickness," Dean muttered. He swore under his breath and buried himself into the seat. "Dude, quit staring. I'm not going to spontaneously combust."

"How long have you had it?"

"Couple of days."

"Since we left town."

Dean shrugged.

Sam sighed. They didn't need any more problems. This was going to slow them down. No way could Dean hunt if he was distracted every ten seconds.

"We should call Bobby."

"I'm not calling Bobby about a rash."

"Fine, then I'll call Bobby and tell him you're too chicken to call him yourself."

"I'll call Bobby," Dean mumbled.

Sam nodded. He started the Impala and headed back to the hotel. Once they were checked in and settled into their room, maybe he and Dean could figure out a plan on how they were going to investigate the case.

He just hoped Dean was right and this turned out to be nothing but mundane, non-paranormal problem.

But something in Sam's gut told him that was just wishful thinking.

* * *

Dean decided this plan sucked.

He sat at the edge of his hotel bed and stared at Sam's open laptop on the table across from him. He was supposed to be doing some research on the history of murders in the town while Sam scoped out the forest, but Dean couldn't really find the motivation to do it. The two of them totally deserved a vacation, especially after the whole town-smiting thing, and yet here they were again, on another case. This time they had the pleasure of tracking down a bunch of Satanists.

He grabbed the beer bottle at his feet and took a long swig. "Goat-loving freaks. Fan –freakin' – tastic."

He sighed and placed the bottle on the floor before he staggered over to the table. He'd already done some preliminary research on the cult that lived right outside of town. Dean figured you read up on one cult, and then you know them all.

They had the same MO as just about any other LaVey wannabe.

With an unsteady push, Dean forced himself to his feet. The movement brought a sharp pang between his shoulders, and he immediately reached back to scratch at the itch. This whole rash thing was starting to get old. Growing up he'd had the chicken pox – thanks to Sam – once. That was it. Now, it seemed like the universe was making up for lost time. Whatever horrible things he'd done throughout his life and through his death, he seemed to be paying for them now. Man, karma was a bitch.

Dean tried to ignore the itch and the soreness near his shoulders and grabbed his beer bottle. He shrugged on his jacket and walked outside of their room, standing to lean on the entryway. The night had that cool chill of a waning fall, sharp enough that it seemed to cut through any of the warmth that was left to the air. Dean could almost taste the cold of winter.

That meant it was time for some defroster for his windshield wiper fluid.

He breathed in the air and shook his shoulders, hoping some of the cold air would soothe the throbbing on his back.

Bobby had told him to just keep putting on the disinfectant cream he'd been using to treat the rash. Like Sam, he'd had a bit of a hissy fit over whether it was more ghost sickness or not, even though Dean told him he could feel a difference. It wasn't like the ghost sickness was subtle or nothing. Besides, he'd been cured of the ghost disease ages ago now.

Even so, Bobby was checking for any cases of relapses. While Dean appreciated Bobby and Sam trying to look out for him, it also meant he was grounded for the time being. Neither one of them wanted him out working jobs just in case he panicked or freaked out or some other nonsense. Not to mention the thing could be contagious.

That meant Sam got to do the interesting stuff while Dean got stuck with research.

Dean took another drink from his bottle. He'd been stabbed, shot, hexed, cursed, drugged, tortured, and survived Hell, and it was a _rash_ that kept him from doing his job. Twice.

Amazing.

After a few minutes, Dean realized the fresh air wasn't doing any good, so he decided to call it a night. He'd go back inside and find some more tidbits on Satanists and their rituals for Sam, and then he was going to tune into some tasteful porn and go to sleep.

Dean shuffled into the hotel room and locked the door. Once he'd tossed the beer bottle in the trash, he grabbed his gun, his phone, and his flask and threw them on top of the dresser. He winced as he reached over his head and peeled off his shirt, the burn of the fabric only aggravating the sore red spots on his back. Dean tossed the shirt onto his bed and sauntered over to the bathroom. Might as well get it over with.

He opened the drawer and withdrew the bottle. At first he squeezed just a dime's worth onto his hands, but considering how much his back was burning right now, he decided a whole glob of it couldn't hurt. He piled the oily stuff onto his hands, rubbed them, and did his best to reach behind his back to get to the red spots.

The cream offered a brief reprieve. He breathed out and sighed with relief as the cool ointment covered the fire that prickled down his shoulder blades.

The relief was short-lived. Within seconds, the burning overcame the cooling sensation, more emboldened than before. Wincing, Dean grabbed the bottle again, lathered up his hands, and then arched his back for a better view in the mirror.

He frowned.

"What the hell is that?"

The rash had started to blister. Dean noticed that the red blotchy spots had enlarged into huge welts and open sores. With a grimace, Dean reached back to touch the enflamed splotches, frowning when he easily peeled back a layer of dead skin.

He stared at the large chunk of skin in his hand. It was thin and damp, drenched in oils from the cream he'd been using. But it was definitely dead skin, not unlike what a snakeskin looked like after it was finished molting.

Slowly, as if awareness finally came back to him, he brought his gaze back to the mirror. Where he'd stripped the skin from his back, more layers teased at breaking away, leaving a bloody, throbbing mess behind them.

Dean tossed the shredded skin on the floor and ran into the main room of the hotel. He had no idea what the hell was happening, but he wasn't about to waste time dwelling on it. He could have been cursed or bitten by something, but he couldn't remember anything like that happening. He immediately thought of the man-eater and his quick transformation, shivering at the thought. But even closer to the forefront of his mind, the blood and quivering mass on his back reminded him of Hell, the tearing and the ripping and the carving. He couldn't deal with that again.

Dean bolted for the phone on the dresser. He didn't make it.

The first spasm ripped through him like a knife. He doubled over and cried out, grabbing onto the edge of his bed for support. His muscles burned and jerked, sending a ripple of spasms down his arms and legs. He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw as he fought the pain, but already he could see black spots forming in front of his eyes.

Somewhere deep inside, he managed to find the strength to pull his shaking body to its feet. He staggered toward the dresser, crashing into it for support.

Dean fumbled for the phone, his uncooperative fingers refusing to press the buttons. He squeezed away the spots and focused on his cell and Sam. He had to call Sam.

Finally, the phone started to ring. He felt a twinge of hope when he heard Sam's voice over the small speaker.

Dean struggled to find his voice, to say anything, but the spasms had reached his throat, holding tight onto his vocal chords. He knew his grip on the phone was tenuous; he wasn't going to last very long.

"Dean?"

Dean moaned through his bolted jaw. The throbbing in his back only become more and more intense, and he felt a pushing, like there was something real and alive just below his skin, begging to break through.

God, he had Alien in him.

"Sam," he managed to say, feeling the panic surging through his blood. His voice sounded pained, foreign even to his own ears. He opened his mouth to call for his brother again, but no sound came out.

"Dean, what's going on? Dean?"

He felt the second wave smack him hard and he cried again, his seizing body jerking out of control. His hand thrust out and knocked over the lamp. The cell phone went with it, hitting the carpet with a thud. Dean fumbled for it, reaching out his hands to try to snatch it away from its exile on the floor, but the spasms proved to be too great.

Mustering the last of his strength, Dean launched himself across the room toward the beds and the small table between them. His dad's journal rested right next to the lamp, and he knew there was a Bible in one of the drawers. One of them had to have answers to help him.

The third wave of spasms struck him cold. Dean dropped to the floor, the pain so great that he felt nothing but cold fire threading across his back. The black spots grew and faded into hot white. He tried again to fight against the pain, even though he knew it was a losing battle.

The last spasm burst through his back muscles and he heard a distinctive popping noise. There was a bright flash; a loud thunderous tear ripped through the room, and he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sam slammed the Impala into park and jumped out of the driver's seat. His shotgun was loaded, the holy water by his side, and his handgun secure. While these were the standards in their arsenal, Sam knew that if he had to, he'd tap into his reserve power. If Dean was in trouble, he wasn't going to play fair. He would do whatever was necessary, whatever the consequences.

Sam kicked in the door.

"Dean!"

He gagged and held his sleeve to his mouth. The room smelled of blood and raw flesh. Blood spray stained the dresser and the walls, while pools of blood had already oxidized and given the floor a deep rust color. From the door, he could see the broken lamp and Dean's cell open on the floor. Chunks of flesh were everywhere: hanging from the dresser handles, on his computer, and randomly littered around the bathroom entrance. Sam raised his shotgun and crept towards the beds and the bathroom, where most of the blood seemed to be.

He stopped. Dean's feet, turned in and unmoving, stuck out between the two beds.

His pulse quickened.

"Dean!"

Sam ran to the space between the beds and froze.

Dean lay prone and unconscious on the dirty hotel room floor, his face turned away from Sam towards one of the beds. His arms were flat by his side; Sam noticed their dad's journal near his fingertips. There was blood all around him.

And he had a pair of feathered wings folded neatly down his back.

Sam immediately raised his shotgun, keeping it trained on the thing that looked like Dean. He was burdened with a mix of emotions: Sam wanted to go to him and make sure he was okay – hell, to see if he was still alive – but the hunter instinct in him prevented him from doing so. Sam didn't even know if this was Dean. It could easily be some crazy shapeshifter, like they'd encountered at Oktoberfest, or some other creature. He also couldn't rule out the possibility that it had once been Dean and had changed into something else.

He stared at the wings for some time. They were large and full, though they didn't seem overpowering, and almost seemed to exude a soft white light. He kept trying to contemplate what he should do next: if he should wake it, tie it up and restrain it while he researched winged creatures, or find some other alternative he hadn't considered.

Finally, he decided to investigate. With measured steps, Sam approached Dean's limp body. He crouched down, and using the barrel of the shotgun, he gingerly lifted one of the simple, straight wings.

The wing wasn't just attached to the body at random. Sam mentally traced the skin that covered the wing down to Dean's back. He couldn't discern any start or end point; it seemed perfectly natural and seamless. Sam did note that there was redness around Dean's shoulders, almost as if the wings had erupted right out of his body. His back also had traces of blood, and the wings themselves were as stained as the carpet.

He tapped the wing twice. There was solid bone along the arm of it, and it was embedded right into Dean's back, near his shoulder blades.

Against his better judgment, Sam reached for Dean's wrist and checked for a pulse. To his relief, he found the rate to be steady and healthy. But knowing that fact didn't change the problem before his eyes.

Sam eased himself onto the edge of the bed farthest from Dean and covered his mouth with his free hand. He didn't know what to do.

He afforded himself a moment of silence. Between the seals, hunting Lilith, angels and demons, and everything in between, he hadn't had time to stop. Maybe he didn't want to stop. Maybe he didn't want to have to take moment to consider all they were going through or the long road ahead.

All he wanted was Lilith gone forever. All he wanted was for him and Dean to travel the road and do what they were meant to do.

He couldn't do that if they kept hitting roadblocks along the way.

There was a stirring on the floor; Sam tensed. He raised the shotgun again and studied Dean's form – or whatever it was supposed to be.

Dean moaned and turned his head. His face was smudged with blood, and in an almost comical way, part of a dead, brown leaf from one of the trees outside was stuck to his pale cheek.

Sam wasn't laughing.

Dean's eyes opened to slits before an unseen weight pressed them shut. The wings remained motionless, like dead wood, as he struggled to full consciousness. Sam kept quiet as Dean lifted his head and squinted.

"Sam?"

His name came out more of a slur than anything else, but Sam could understand him. Dean attempted to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids kept sliding shut. Just when Sam thought he was going to pass out, Dean's eyes fluttered again, his senses finally appearing to come back to him.

"Ugh, I feel like crap," he muttered. His hands fumbled as he tried to push himself off the floor. Sam thought that he was going to give up and collapse back into unconsciousness, but he pushed again, this time with more effort.

Sam resisted the urge to help him. "What happened?" he asked coolly.

Dean didn't answer him. His glassy eyes and dazed expression wavered between confusion and sleepiness. His gaze traveled to the alarm clock on the table between the beds to their dad's journal by his side. Sam watched as the lines in his face deepened, as if he was just now starting to work out what happened.

"Dean."

"Did I black out?" Dean asked. He winced and struggled to right himself again. He didn't let Sam answer; he swore and collapsed again. "Dude, get off my back."

Sam cleared his throat. Dean turned his attention back to Sam, who was seated at a distance, and frowned. Sam held up the shotgun and used it to point to Dean's back.

Dean followed Sam's gaze and twisted his neck. The frown only deepened, and for a second, Sam saw a flash of anger.

"You tied a dead turkey to my back? We're starting that again?"

"No practical jokes," Sam said.

Dean turned again, but this time his gaze swept the room. Sam noted the fear, the panic, and the nervousness beginning to settle into his eyes, but when Sam read into his face, everything was still tainted with an overwhelming bewilderment.

"Do you know what happened?"

Dean moaned again. When he grabbed at the table for support, Sam leapt to his feet and cocked the shotgun.

His vigilance seemed to be all for nothing. Dean turned his back on Sam, giving him a perfect shot if he wanted, and instead of protecting himself, he focused on dragging his weighted body off the floor. Sam wasn't even sure Dean knew he had a gun trained on him, which wasn't like Dean at all.

Even if it wasn't reacting like Dean, it still didn't act like a creature on the prowl for an attack. There was no self-preservation. There wasn't any defense mechanism. There was barely even any self-awareness. If not for the wings, Sam would just have assumed that Dean was drunk.

Dean finally pulled himself upright, or as close as he was going to get, and heaved half of his stomach onto Sam's bed. Sam cringed, watching with dismay as he smeared some of the blood and skin fragments all over his sheets.

"I can't--" Dean screwed his eyes shut, grunted, and pulled himself as he tried to stand on unsteady feet.

Sam took a tentative step forward and finally, sensing that there was no danger, grabbed Dean's arm and helped him stand.

Dean pushed him away and scowled. He buckled under his own weight, but quickly pulled himself onto the bed again.

One of the wings, still unmoving and limp, and pulled by gravity and its own weight, bumped into Dean's upper arm. He swatted it away, cursing under his breath. "Get it off," he muttered.

"Dean…"

He swatted at it again. When his frustration, having turned into a biting anger, overtook him yet again, he batted at the wing for a third time. Dean mumbled something Sam couldn't understand, and, with a loud grunt, grabbed a fist full of feathers and pulled.

The howl that erupted from Dean's lips threw Sam back into full alert. He raised the shotgun and nearly fired as he watched the wings flap into a defensive frenzy.

Dean swatted at the frantic wings, which seemed to have a mind of their own, as he struggled to keep himself balanced. Sam kept the shotgun trained on him, as a warning if nothing else, while Dean continued to beat up himself. After a while, Sam lowered the gun, realizing this entire scenario was more pathetic than unsafe.

Dean turned, finally lost his balance, and fell flat on his ass. Normally, such a humiliating act would have completely embarrassed Dean, but his face was still marred with traces of shock and puzzlement. Unperturbed, he thrust out his arm, showcasing a handful of feathers in his tight grasp. "What the hell is that? Is that on me? Is that _in_ me?"

"Just calm down," Sam said, keeping his voice even and controlled. He took a few measured steps toward Dean, who was clearly in a panic. Sam still wasn't sure who or what he was dealing with, but if this was Dean, he didn't know if there were other chemical reactions or magic affecting Dean's mind, his mood, and his actions.

"Calm down? Dude, I have--" Dean stopped and breathed hard, as if everything finally made sense to him. "I have friggin' wings on my back!"

"I know." He stepped toward Dean again, his hands open and non-threatening. "I found you this way. What's the last thing you remember?"

Dean turned his head, his unsteady gaze lost as he thought. "I--"

"You called me, remember?"

Dean searched the room, his gaze falling to his cell phone. Then, he sighed and closed his eyes. "Dammit."

"Dean?"

"That damn rash," he said. "It started peeling and throbbing and I heard something pop, then tear." He brought his hands to his face and scrubbed it with frustration. "I have wings. Super."

Sam reached down and grabbed their father's journal. Before he went to sit at the small table near the kitchen, he extended his hand to offer Dean some help, deciding Dean wasn't much of a threat at this point. Dean shooed him away and grumbled something he couldn't hear. Sam took the macho display as a good sign that his brother was still in there and left Dean to figure out how to help himself. In the meantime, Sam went to the table and opened the journal. Their dad had to have something on winged phenomena.

After a few minutes, Sam stopped and looked up from the book. Dean had managed to get on all fours, his wings slumping over his sides, having quieted again, and he reached out to Sam's bed for support again. With a heavy grunt, he pulled himself into a standing position. He wavered, almost buckling from the extra weight, but managed to take slow, deliberate steps toward the table. Sam felt his stomach tighten as he watched Dean struggle with something as simple as walking. This entire situation was more pitiful than funny, sadder than terrifying. He just hoped they could find a way to fix it.

Dean swung one of the chairs around and straddled it, burying his weary head in his folded arms. He stayed that way for a good five minutes, neither body nor wings making any sound, leading Sam to believe he'd fallen asleep. But finally he raised his head and rested his chin on his arms. While his eyes were still glassy and unfocused, he seemed to have at least calmed down.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

Dean glared at him. "My head hurts. My back hurts. I feel like the Energizer Bunny steamrolled through my body and out my back. There are _pieces of me _on the floor." He banged his forehead on his arms. "Yeah, I'm just ducky."

Sam didn't know how to respond without making a bird joke, so he went back to their dad's journal. Dean had always been a bit of a drama queen when it came to being sick or hurt, so he took his whining as another good sign.

Not that Dean had to know that.

"So?" Dean asked.

"There have been reports of winged creatures throughout history," Sam told him. He averted his gaze and flipped through the book.

"I'm no creature."

Sam nodded, but didn't break from the text. He knew that reports of the Jersey Devil and the Mothman spoke of creatures with wings. But both of those were considered different species by hunter standards, and didn't carry any contagion that could spread to a human.

The way Dean was acting, Sam thought he could safely rule out shapeshifting. He also knew he could discount most types of body swapping Fey. Faerie folk could be mischievous and even sinister, but something like this didn't sound like their style. Sam was convinced they weren't dealing with some kind of doppelganger. This was Dean. Something must have triggered the change.

Sam shook his head. "I don't--"

He stopped when he realized Dean's eyes were closed. Dean was slumped over the back of the chair, his head pillowed on his arms, and judging by the stillness in his face, out cold. The fact Dean kept wavering in and out of consciousness worried Sam, but he mostly felt frustrated that he couldn't fix the problem. At this point, he couldn't be sure if the rest helped Dean or made things worse.

"Dean." He reached over and gave his arm a light shake. "Stay with me, Dean."

His eyes fluttered open. "Sam?"

"Do you remember what's going on?"

Dean blinked his glassy eyes twice before he twisted to look behind him. He inhaled sharply and his shoulders shook, the wings bristling at the movement.

"Damn, it's no dream," Dean muttered. He moaned and rubbed his eyes.

"Afraid not."

Dean didn't say anything after that. He rested his head back on his arms and stared off into space, oddly quiet and detached, which only made Sam more nervous. Sam felt the pressure to find a solution soon before he lost his brother to something he couldn't explain.

He flipped to another page in the journal. There was plenty of information on some bat creature that lived in the Montana woods, but that wasn't going to help them. Their dad had to have something. Anything.

As he continued to flip through their dad's notes, Dean reached over and pulled Sam's laptop to the edge of the table. He cringed, flicking off a piece of molted skin, and poked at the keys. Sam watched him quietly. Dean still looked pale, even a little green, but to his credit he was holding up well.

Sam wasn't really sure what they would accomplish as they researched the problem together, but they had to at least try.

The Satanists would have to wait. For now.

After a long silence, Dean finally asked, "There has to be cases of people getting wings, right?"

Sam knew that Dean was seeking reassurance, but it wasn't something Sam could give him. He had never heard of cases where people spontaneously grew wings, and any case of a person that started manifesting other physical attributes beyond the norm never ended well. For something _that _supernatural to take place, usually it meant that the person was undergoing some kind of transformation, a transformation that would ultimately be their undoing.

Sam couldn't help but think Jack Montgomery.

He tried not to think of himself. That was different.

Dean abruptly stood, which set Sam on alert again. He tensed and brought his hand to his side, but Dean didn't try anything. The worst he did was swagger as he stood, but with every step, he seemed to handle the extra weight with more confidence. Sam watched him make his way to the bathroom, and after grabbing the sink for support, he reached over, slammed the toilet, and started to retch.

Sam made a face and went back to his notes.

After a few minutes, Sam heard the shake of pill bottles and running water. Considering the amount of blood in the room, Dean's transformation must have been painful. At least Sam could sympathize. When he would receive the vision headaches, no drugs could help ease his pain.

"Dude."

Sam lifted his head and saw Dean staring at the shotgun on the bed. His wings bristled. "You were gonna shoot me?"

Sam shrugged. "I didn't know what you were." When Dean leaned over the bed and touched the shotgun, his wings gave a subtle twitch. Sam tried to ignore them by turning back to the journal. "Here," he said, trying to change the subject. "Dad has some notes about different winged creatures."

"So? I'm not any of those things."

"Yeah." Sam pointed to one of the pages. "Well, gargoyles have wings. Same as harpies, angels…really any number of creatures."

"Human," Dean reminded him. He looked at the page once and then collapsed back into his chair. "Bobby's got a beard and a big sack cloth. Don't make him Santa."

"Dean…"

"Sam, those aren't people."

"I know," Sam said impatiently. "But I'm trying to see if they can hex or curse anyone into the same kind of life."

Dean sighed. His wings flapped unexpectedly, causing both of them to jerk. Dean just rolled his eyes and went back to being miserable.

"Wonderful," his muffled voice came from his folded arms. "I'm the world's biggest feather duster."

"We'll figure something out," Sam said.

Sam held onto that mantra as they researched for the next couple of hours. When they reached well into the third hour of looking through various databases, forums, websites, online stories, and the rest of their dad's notes, Sam knew they weren't going to make any headway. So far, out of the hundreds of weird blogs and unconfirmed reports, all they had found were three alleged winged cases that had any resemblance to Dean, and Sam was using "resemblance" liberally. One lady thought she was a swan and had been institutionalized. Another was a bad Photoshop job. The third was about a boy who had the misfortune of having a deformity that his parents milked for all that it was worth.

"This is fantastic," Dean said, throwing the journal across the table. "There's squat out there."

"You always said you were one of a kind." Sam looked up from the computer and smiled.

"Funny."

"Lighten up, Dean. We've dealt with worse. We'll fix this." His smile grew. "In the meantime, we won't have to worry about dust for awhile."

Dean glared at him. Sam laughed.

It was all he could do. If Sam was truly honest with himself, he was worried. More than just worried, Sam was afraid for his brother and what this incident could mean. The fact remained that something had changed Dean. Whether they wanted to admit it or not, Dean was different, and that difference could be manifesting in ways they hadn't discovered yet. A pair of wings seemed innocent enough, but Sam was concerned that maybe Dean had changed in other fundamental ways as well. Unless they were dealing with something like an illusion or parlor trick, like something created by a trickster, then they had to face the reality that Dean had changed.

One fact unsettled Sam the most. This happened just two days after their encounter with Uriel and Castiel and the witches. While Sam knew Dean had met angels before, he couldn't deny the parallel between angels coming to town and Dean leaving them only to grow a pair of wings right after. He also couldn't say he enjoyed the intense interest they seemed to have in his brother. The idea sounded insane; angels, whether they had had good intentions or not, wouldn't have the time or the inclination to give a regular human being wings. For what? What good would come of it? How could that even be useful? If Sam had learned anything from his brief interlude with the angels, it was that they were logical and utilitarian beings.

It could have been a spell or a hex placed on Dean while they were in town or when they arrived here in Dixville, Oklahoma. For Sam, that seemed more likely than religious warriors giving Dean wings for kicks. The only problem with a witch hexing Dean was that a hex almost always meant something bad. If this was just the beginning of a transformation for Dean, Sam was uneasy about what the rest of the change could entail.

Then there was the third idea he had, one he didn't want to ponder if he didn't have to.

"I know you're thinking it," Dean said at last.

"Thinking what?" Sam sat straighter. "Can you read minds?"

"What?" Dean scowled. "No."

Sam felt a twinge of relief. "Do you feel any different?"

"Dude, I have wings on my back."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I mean, are you having any strange feelings? Urges? Cravings?"

"I have wings, Sam. I'm not pregnant." Dean paused and considered that for a moment. "At least I hope not." He looked down at his stomach.

"Unless you can spontaneously change sex, I doubt it. Though, you know, if you can wake up with wings one day, I suppose anything is possible."

Dean gave him a worried glance.

Sam smiled again.

"That's so not funny."

Sam shrugged. Then, he looked at the clock and shut his computer. They weren't getting anywhere. He didn't feel like Dean was a threat in his current form and he knew they both could use some sleep. As much as Sam hated to sideline the wing issue, he knew they couldn't waste any more time on this. If Lilith had some of her followers working magic in the woods, then they had to act fast. They had to be rested and prepared.

"I know what you're thinking, man, and no. I didn't come back wrong."

Sam eyed Dean. "You don't sound too convinced."

"Believe me, I know."

"Why? You remember something you're not telling me?"

Dean's face reddened. "No."

"Right."

"I didn't come back wrong. Just trust me on that." His voice lowered, almost sounding hollow and brittle. Finally, he cleared his throat and shook his head. The wings shook with him. "This is new."

Sam would have to take his word for it, at least for now. It didn't mean Sam had to like it.

"You got that look," Dean said, frowning. "I hate that look."

"I think we should try to contact Castiel," Sam offered. "Or Ruby."

Dean laughed, and then fell dead serious. "No."

"Ruby might know."

"No."

"Fine, let's call Castiel."

Dean rubbed his face and let out a threaded sigh; Sam thought he was going to hurl again. "The guy that just wanted to wipe an entire town off the face of the Earth? One of the guys even you think are a couple of dicks?"

"Yes, we've established that." Sam sighed. Sometimes trying to reason with Dean was impossible. "I just think we should cover our bases."

"These wings don't work the same as Cas' wings."

Sam arched his eyebrows. "So, now you're the expert on wings."

Dean glared at him.

Sam tried hard to ignore the way the wings arched behind Dean's back every time he became agitated. He wasn't even sure Dean realized it.

"How do you know?" Sam asked, breaking his gaze.

"Jealous?"

Sam scoffed. "No. I'm just the one thinking with a clear head. This is all new to us, Dean."

Dean sighed. "I've seen Cas' wings."

Sam blinked. He'd forgotten that Castiel had revealed that much of himself to Dean.

"Part of them anyway," Dean muttered. "Or their shadow. Something. These are different. I just know it."

Sam really didn't want to know how Dean could tell the difference. Even if he did, Sam had a feeling he wouldn't be finding out anything soon.

"Look, Dean, it's late. Tonight's a wash. We're not going to get any information out of the occultists in the woods. Let's clean up some of this mess, get some sleep, and figure things out in the morning." He rose from his seat and came to stand beside Dean. "Can you make it to the bed?"

"Dude, I'm not a cripple."

Yet, Dean didn't move.

Sam moved closer and started to offer a hand to help, but Dean swatted him away. He obviously was still in a mood and Sam wasn't going to push it. Not when he had bigger problems to deal with.

Battling his own fatigue, Sam stretched and reached over to grab a pillow from Dean's bed. He shoved it into Dean's arms and walked away, not even waiting for a response. Sam had no doubt that he looked as worn as Dean did. Both of them could seriously use the rest after the events of the day. But even as Dean gave a forlorn look at his bed, Sam had a feeling neither one of them would be getting much sleep tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Not only were the wings useless, but also they were a pain in the ass.

Dean pounded his fist onto his pillow. Sleeping while straddling a chair didn't make for the best night's sleep. He'd slept in worse positions – in his car, on park benches, standing up in a closet – but those had all been by choice. This fiasco sure as hell wasn't choice, and it was seriously pissing him off. He couldn't even wrap himself in the dingy motel blankets because the damn wings flapped around as soon as anything touched them, like they had a mind of their own.

Sam said it was probably some involuntary mechanism built into the wings, sort of like blinking. Dean didn't care if the wings were programmed like streetlights. He wanted them gone so he could feel normal again.

He started to doze, but like the other five times before, the wings flapped for God knows what, and woke him up again. Dean swore and threw the pillow on the floor. If he couldn't sleep, he was going to do something useful.

He glanced to Sam's bed. Sam was asleep. His position was just as awkward: he was on his side, facing Dean, his shotgun resting right by the table. It didn't take a genius to guess what was on Sam's mind. Dean couldn't really blame him.

Dean figured he'd go take a leak, but even something that simple filled him with anger and frustration. He needed to make it several feet from his chair to the bathroom. That was going to take work.

But he really had to pee.

Dean grabbed onto the table. The ache in his muscles radiated over his shoulders, worse now than the night before. He bit back the pain and pushed himself to his feet. Dean immediately felt the weight tugging him back. Whether it was a good thing or not – he wasn't sure – he had started to get used to the strange weight on his back, so that when he did stand, he knew to lean slightly forward.

He kept his pace very slow as he walked to the bathroom. Luckily, Sam had had the foresight to keep the trash bags out of his path. He did his business and washed up, trying to pretend the unwanted gift on his back wasn't there. It was hard. He'd figured out that the wings reacted to certain things, like emotion – happiness, anger, sadness, pleasure. It was like the stupid things wanted to be noticed.

He'd notice them, all right. He'd rip them out feather by feather if it meant he could get some peace.

Dean stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror. Sunken eyes, colorless face - he looked like he'd been hit with a truck. Or he looked dead. Maybe he was dead again.

He winced, gingerly touching the bruises on his arm from where he'd hit the dresser. He had some scrapes on his chest and neck, probably from the end table or something else he'd smacked before he'd blacked out. Hell, he even had some rug burn from the carpet.

With a sigh, he turned away from the mirror and searched the sink. He grabbed a bottle of painkillers and chucked a few back, chasing them down with three large gulps of whiskey from his flask. He knew it was pointless; the ache and throbbing soreness would just come back in an hour, but the whiskey would take the edge off for now.

After standing immobile for a minute, feeling the slow soft burn of the whiskey as it traveled down his throat, he forced himself to look back at his reflection. As much as he tried, he couldn't avoid the wings. They were still there, hovering behind his back, mocking him.

One rested flat against his back, and Dean wondered vaguely if he'd managed to break it or if the stupid thing was defective. The other wing was arched, not over his head, but just above his shoulder, the feathers along the edge partly fanned out. The thing looked stuck.

Dean pivoted his body so that his back was almost facing the mirror. He looked over his shoulder for a better view. He couldn't really see anything more, just a bunch of friggin' feathers, but he could still feel the ache where the wings had cut through his skin and muscle, even if that same ache had been dulled by the drugs.

He didn't like looking at them. They reminded him of birds' wings, and he was no bird. Thankfully, they weren't fluffy and cute or anything more ridiculous. They looked white, but sometimes not. They were light, but heavy. They weren't super long and only went down to his thighs, but they were long enough. They were simple and slick, and even looked sharp at the tips, though no way he was going to touch them to find out. That was plain wrong.

Sometimes when the light hit them just right, he thought they were made out of light themselves. He knew better. Light didn't feel like a sack of bricks.

"Go away," he said to his reflection. He waved his hands back to shoo them or to see if he could make the damn things react.

Nothing.

He tried again, this time pushing his hands up, then down, then side to side before trying little swirly motions. He wished he could just make them disappear.

Dean stared again at his reflection. No such luck.

"Get the hell down," he told the one that was stuck in a semi-arch behind him. "Down, stupid."

"Are you talking to your wings?"

Dean jerked. His wings finally reacted and flapped twice. He groaned, wondering if this was some sick cosmic joke, and glared to his right.

Sam stood beside him and leaned on the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, as he watched Dean with mild amusement. "I don't think they're going to talk back," he said.

"Glad you think it's funny," Dean muttered.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Dean, but making a big deal about it isn't going to make it any better."

"Wings, Sam. Wings. I think that officially counts as a big deal." Dean flipped on the faucet, scooped up some water, and splashed his face.

From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Sam steal a glance at the pill bottles before his gaze returned to Dean. "I'm not the one in denial."

"Oh, I'm not denying they're there. Believe me, I'd sure as hell like to." Dean glared at the wings before he splashed his face again. "But I'm not gonna joke about them and pretend everything's a-okay."

Sam sighed. "I'm just trying to make it easier on you. You're obviously upset."

"Upset?" Dean straightened and cringed, feeling the wings bristle. "I have feathers growing out of my back. What do you expect? You won't even look at the damn things. Who's the one in denial?"

"I just--" Sam sighed.

Dean didn't need Sam to say it. He knew. "You think I'm nuts or something? You think I'm compromised."

"No. No, it's not like that."

"Then, what's it like, Sammy? Huh?"

Sam shook his head. "Look, never mind. We just need to figure out how to fix it so we can tackle Lilith."

"Right." He grabbed a cloth from the sink and wiped his face. Because if it wasn't Lilith, it was running from monsters. And when it wasn't battling monsters and demons, it was avoiding the apocalypse. He was getting damn tired of it. "So, what do we know so far?" he asked.

"About the same. Ritualistic murders right outside of town. Could be Lilith trying to break a seal."

"Do we have any intel to go on?" Dean didn't like that Sam kept assuming anything could be Lilith-related, though at this point, he couldn't really blame him.

"Just the lead that you chased away this morning."

Dean glared at Sam and felt his wings stiffen. He tried not to think about what kind of idiot he looked like by remaining focused on Sam. Frustration and impatience marred his brother's face, leaving Dean to wonder just how sore he was about that morning. It wasn't his fault that the chick wasn't talking. And it wasn't like Dean asked for the wing problem on top of everything else.

"If she's in on it, she'll probably be running off to her buddies as soon as she thinks we've backed down." He tossed the cloth on the sink and turned to fully face Sam. "Find anything in the woods?"

Sam shook his head. "Just the regular harmless pseudo-occult stuff from the local teens."

"Junk," Dean muttered. That kind of garbage did nothing but get in the way of a good investigation. "Where was all this supposed to have gone down?" Dean asked.

"The appropriately named Devil's Creek." Sam reminded him.

Dean rolled his eyes. What the hell was with people? Did they even watch movies?

"There's gotta be something out there," Dean said.

Sam nodded. "True Satanists are really good at covering their tracks, but they can't erase all the magic traces they leave behind."

Which meant they had to act fast to find them before nature took care of the rest. "We gotta get out there."

Sam stared at him.

"What?"

"We?"

"Yeah, we."

Sam let out a short, derisive laugh. "Look in the mirror lately?"

Dean set his jaw. Behind him, he felt the feathers bristle as the wings reacted to his anger. He didn't need to be reminded about the baggage riding on his back, but he also wasn't going to just sit around inside the motel all day.

"Don't puff those out at me," Sam said. "You can't go out like this, Dean. You know that."

He didn't care if Sam was right. What was he supposed to do? Just sit around and twiddle his thumbs? They were on a job. The more he could work, the more he could ignore the images that assailed him as he slept. The more he could pretend what had happened to him over the summer didn't exist.

"I'm not going to sit and do squat."

"I'm not saying you have to." He motioned over his shoulder. "There's always research."

Dean made a face. He was wrong. This wasn't some sick joke. This was punishment.

"We could always call Bobby."

Dean's head shot up at the suggestion. "We're not calling Bobby."

"Come on, Dean."

"No, I don't want him knowing 'bout this."

"Dean, he could help."

"I said no. Did you tell him about the demon blood?" Sam fell silent. "Yeah, didn't think so."

Sam remained quiet, unusually quiet, to the point where Dean felt himself squirming under his brother's glare. Finally, Sam broke off and marched back into the double room and started gathering his stuff.

Dean frowned. "Where're you going?"

"To end this," Sam said. "And unless you can find a way to get those under control or make them disappear, you can't go out there."

"I got it under control," Dean mumbled, stepping forward to meet Sam. He was promptly knocked back as the wings slammed into the doorframe. He hissed and took a step back, feeling the pain flare through his back.

"Dean, you can't even walk out the door." Sam sighed. "Let me handle this one. Work on figuring out what's happening."

Sam didn't wait for Dean to reply. He turned his back, grabbed his jacket, and snatched the keys to the Impala. Dean was positive he was just going to walk out without another word, but he hesitated at the door and looked back, his face an unreadable mix of emotion.

"Promise me you won't leave, okay? Just wait until I get back."

Dean shrugged him off and turned back to his reflection. He was so lost in his own frustration and anger he almost missed hearing the door click behind Sam.

Then he was on his own again.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

As soon as Sam was out of earshot, he pulled the Impala to the side of the road and took out his cell phone. He scrolled through his lists of contacts, but found himself hesitating. He wasn't exactly on the best of terms with most of these people, having only encountered them here or there in his travels, not counting the hunters that were more associated with Dean than anyone else. They wouldn't have any information he would need. If they knew about Dean, or even himself, they would be among the first to hunt them down.

Sam knew he should just call Bobby. Bobby's vast library had to have something that could explain what was happening to Dean. He couldn't bring himself to make the call. Sam, in good conscience, couldn't out Dean until he was ready no matter how badly he wanted to call.

Sam paused over Ruby's name. If Dean were being haunted by some black magic, she would be the best one to call. Sam knew that if anyone could help Dean out of a curse, she would be the one.

He sighed and slid the phone in his pocket. Now was not the time to dwell on any of this. Dean would be okay at the motel. Sam had to take care of the Satanists and uncover any link to Lilith. Then they could figure out what happened to Dean.

But at the back of his mind he feared the worst. All he could imagine was Dean ripping and tearing through the motel before finally breaking free and flying away. He saw Dean screeching in pain as the changes took over him, erasing his humanity piece by piece. There was nothing left but a creature driven by instinct. Dean was gone.

Sam swallowed hard. He couldn't let Dean go again. He hated leaving him alone in the motel, but Sam knew he had to serve a greater responsibility.

Dean would be okay, he told himself. The faster he finished the job, the sooner he could find a way to fix Dean.

That was what Sam kept telling himself as he pulled the Impala off the side of the road and headed for the forested land on the outskirts of the town.

* * * *

Though Sam had only be gone a matter of minutes, Dean felt like it had been hours. He sat at the edge of his bed, rubbing his hands, as he stared at the wall. He felt like a caged bird, musing just how appropriate that saying was right now, and yearned to go out and _do_ something. Staying locked inside just made him restless. It always made him restless.

And scared. He didn't want Sam to know how scared he was. He kept having this nightmare where he'd grow claws and find himself hunting for worms at the crack of dawn and _like_ it. Or that he'd start chirping and preening the friggin' feathers or something equally ridiculous.

Then he remembered he had wings on his back and every insane thought inched closer to becoming reality.

Sam thought it was the angels. Dean could see it in his eyes. And while the wings might be a big clue, Dean was reluctant to buy that theory. It couldn't be Castiel and his buddy. There just was no way. They barely seemed to stand humans. No way they'd go around magically bopping people. There was no point to that.

Instead, he kept trying to tell himself it was just some sick prank from the Trickster. They weren't exactly on the best terms with him after having tried to kill him twice. Maybe this was how he got his kicks. Maybe he saw the angel thing brewing and thought it would get a good laugh and knock him down a peg.

Dean was afraid that was wishful thinking.

He shook his legs and rubbed his thighs, unable to hold back his nervous energy. He couldn't just sit here and wait for Sam to come back. The pain meds were already starting to wear off, bringing back that dull, nauseating ache. Only now that the shock was starting to wear off, Dean had started to actually feel the wings on his back. Not just awareness that they were there. Not just annoyance whenever they reacted to something on their own. Not the smell or the sound they made. Dean could actually feel the new bones that protruded from his back. He felt the skin that stretched over them. He felt the muscles that cemented them to his back. The worst part: they felt as natural and normal as one of his legs or arms.

The damn things had to go. Now.

Dean stood and immediately dove for his duffle bag. He stumbled, forgetting the weight on his back, but quickly recovered so he didn't fall flat on his ass again.

He knew he had some of the supplies stashed in his bag. He always kept a few things ready.

"Bingo."

Dean grabbed the candles and chalk, jumping right to work. Within a matter of minutes, he'd crafted the appropriate sigils and signs. Now he just had to wait for Castiel to get his ass over to the motel.

Dean glanced at his watch. Two hours. He'd been waiting for Cas for two damn hours. Summoning never took this long. Where the hell was he?

"Come on, Cas. This isn't funny."

The curtains made no move. The candles didn't flicker. Everything remained calm and still.

Dean started to pace the room. He didn't care if the motion increased his nausea or back pain. He needed something to focus on before he started tearing up the joint out of frustration.

He knew that the angels weren't there to be his personal servants, to cater to every whim. Castiel had made that pretty clear. But after the whole town-smiting incident, he thought maybe Castiel had loosened up a bit. Dean expected him to actually show when summoned.

He sighed. "It better be damn important," he said to the air.

Resigned to being alone on this one, Dean packed up the candles and the books before he cleaned up the chalk sigils he'd marked on the floor.

Frustrated, he tossed his full duffle on the bed. Dean didn't know what else he could do. The wings weren't going away and it wasn't like he had a lot of intel to work with right now.

The computer was giving him zippo in terms of information. Sam had the Impala so he couldn't go anywhere. Not that he could fit behind the wheel like this, but that wasn't important.

He couldn't walk outside without ending up in a lab. He was stuck.

Dean slipped out his phone and stared at it. He'd run out of options, but dammit, he couldn't sit here and do nothing. If anyone could help him, it would be Bobby. Still, Dean really didn't want to make this call.

He shook his head and dialed. No way was Bobby gonna buy the crap he was about to shovel.

"Yeah."

"Hey, Bobby."

He heard a heavy sigh. "So what trouble you boys in now?"

Dean let out a nervous laugh as he lowered himself onto the bed. "Aw, come on, Bobby. Can't we just call to chat?"

"You never just call to chat." He paused. "How's your rash problem?"

Dean glanced behind his back. His wings flapped twice. "Uh, the rash is gone."

"What was that?" Bobby asked.

Dean swatted at the wings behind him and cringed. "Damn bird hit the window."

"Right. So, ya sure it's all normal?"

_Oh, it was far from normal_, Dean thought. "Yeah, it's going away. The rash isn't what I'm calling you for."

"I figured as much."

"We're working this job on Satanists."

"Pleasant bunch."

"You're telling me," Dean muttered. "But while we're working it, we found something weird."

"Weird? Like how weird?"

"Like Pink Floyd does _Wizard of Oz_ weird."

"A little less cryptic?"

"We found some…" Dean took a deep breath. "We found some dude with wings."

There was a short pause. "Okay. And?"

"And? That's it?"

"Wings ain't exactly breaking news, boy. Not with your angel friends hanging 'round."

"No, I'm not talking angels," Dean said, tiring of the angel talk in the worst way. "I'm talking regular old, normal guy with wings."

"Normal don't exactly come packaged with wings."

Dean wiped his face with frustration. He didn't know how else he could broach the subject without full out telling Bobby. No way he could tell Bobby what happened to him. No way.

"Sam and I found this guy. He was perfectly normal one day and then the next he was growing a pair."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously." Dean cringed feeling the wings flutter behind him. "We're trying to figure out what happened to him. Witches, magic, trickster, something else…and whether it's just some harmless joke or he's gonna change more. You got lore on it?"

"I shouldn't be the one to tell ya this, Dean, but this guy don't sound normal to begin with. Stuff like this ain't never harmless. There's got to be more going on than he's telling you."

"No, Bobby." Dean felt his voice waver. He cleared his throat. "This guy's clean."

"What makes you so sure?" Bobby asked.

Dean wasn't sure what to say. "I just know. I got like a sixth sense when it comes to these things."

There was a loud sigh. "The hell you do. And why are you sitting on this? Why aren't you huntin' it?"

Dean felt his breath catch in his throat. He searched the room as his mind raced to find some kind of excuse. His gaze fell to Sam's laptop. "Uh, Sam wanted to chat with it."

Bobby sighed again. "Dammit, Dean."

"Hey, you know me. Show me something unnatural and I'll kill it." He swallowed hard. "But I'm with Sammy on this one."

There was another pause on the other end, followed by the sound of shuffling paper. "It could be any number of things. Harpy."

"Dude's not a bird-chick."

"All right, then." More shuffling. "If we ain't talkin' angels or harpies, then there's imps or gargoyles."

Dean shook his head. "No, definitely not those."

"Look, you want my help or not?"

Dean clapped his free hand on his side. "Yeah."

"All right. You got Sam's computer nearby?"

He gave a forlorn look at the computer on the table. Damn, it seemed so far away.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going."

After he pushed himself off the bed, Dean dragged his body to the table. He lowered himself into the chair and turned on Sam's laptop. "What am I looking for?" he asked.

"Tengu. They're Japanese spirits. Or demons. Take your pick."

"Fantastic," Dean muttered. He typed the name into the search engine, ignoring the ripple of pain through his back muscles.

"Whoa." Dean grimaced. "Dude's ugly."

The things were hideous. The pictures he was staring at had horribly deformed people with claws and beaks and crazed eyes. The others, the more human looking ones, had noses that made Pinocchio look normal.

Dean rubbed his nose.

"What do you expect? A beauty contest?"

"No, but bird people? Come on, Bobby."

"Sometimes they can pass as human if they're masking themselves," Bobby said.

"What else you got?" Dean asked. He backtracked to get away from the pictures. He didn't want to see that.

"There's always garudas or suparna, but those things tend to be more bird than human. Intelligent, beaked creatures linked to Hindus and Buddhists. I doubt you'd be seeing one of them, considering how huge they are."

Dean stared at the pictures. The beaks were officially freaking him out.

"Ya find them?" Bobby asked.

"Not that," Dean said quietly. "Nothing on people growing wings?"

"Not in common lore." Bobby paused in a way that started to make Dean comfortable. He was thankful for once he wasn't in the same room with him. He wouldn't need the wings to show for Bobby to see right through him. "What are you and Sam messin' with?"

"Just your normal freak of the week stuff," Dean said, ending with a nervous laugh. "So, nothing?"

"Chinese deity. Lei gong. He started off normal, so they say, before he ate a peach from heaven and grew wings. After that he became a god of thunder. So unless you're tangling with Chinese gods now…"

Dean clicked through the pictures and the description. He didn't know how the hell Bobby and Sam knew all this stuff.

"Huh. Apparently, he's a freakin' prude." Dean shut down the browser. He'd rather die again than go monkish.

"Don't know what to tell ya," Bobby said. "You got to give me something more. And what the hell has this got to do with Satanists?"

"Been asking myself the same question."

"Ever think you should leave your little monster distraction alone and focus on the main event?"

Dean scowled at the monster mention, but he held his tongue. He wondered if maybe the whole wing thing was a distraction, something tossed at him to throw them off the trail. Whatever it was, he'd gone beyond being just pissed about it. Dean needed to be out there doing something.

Then he remembered something Sam had said: find a way to get the wings under control or make them disappear.

"Bobby, you got some spells that help camouflage?"

"Camouflage? Where'd that come from?"

"Sam and I think we've found where the Satanists are getting their thrills, but we need a way to get to 'em."

Dean winced. So, it wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't exactly a lie, either.

"What about your normal sneaking around?"

"We need something more."

"The hell you do. What's going on?"

Dean jerked. "What? I told you. We're working this job."

"You're a lousy liar. I should know. I lie for a living." Bobby paused. "You ain't protecting Sam again, are you?"

"No." It was the first honest thing he'd said this whole conversation. "No, this don't have nothing to do with Sam."

He heard the start of shuffling again and another heavy sigh. "I got some spells that can camouflage. Like a glamour spell."

"Sweet. That's perfect." If Dean could look normal, than this whole job would be a helluva lot easier.

"I don't need to tell ya them kinds of spells are dangerous," Bobby said. "They're addictive and can really mess with your head."

"Yeah, I know. You know I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't an emergency."

"Promise me you won't be abusing this crap, Dean."

"I swear."

Bobby grumbled in defeat. "You be careful. Those spells are unpredictable. Could wear off any time, and you'd be none the wiser."

"I got it."

"Okay, but you better spill when you're done."

Dean nodded. ""I'll tell you later. Promise. Now what's the spell?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Dean let out a whistle. Bobby had given him quite the laundry list. He was positive he had some of this stuff, maybe even more in the back of the Impala, but he'd been lucky enough to have the bare essentials.

The rest? Hell, guess it was time to improvise.

Over the course of the next few minutes, Dean ransacked his duffle, the mini-kitchen, and the bathroom. He'd have to use the bathmat for an altar cloth, and the soap and shampoo could substitute a few herbs…somehow. He already had the candles, matches, and the spell itself. He didn't have a bowl, but he remembered Sam had been munching on cereal the other day, and after a quick, though demeaning, trash dig, he found it and filled it with water.

Dean set everything up on his makeshift altar and exhaled. Showtime.

He followed the directions precisely the way Bobby had given them to him. He chanted the incantation as he sat on the floor. As he neared the end and completed some rituals with the herbs he had on him, along with the stuff he'd stolen from the bathroom, he leaned over the bowl in the center of the altar. Dean concentrated really hard on how he wanted to look, hoping the image would finally manifest in the darkening waters.

Nothing. He saw diddlysquat.

"Dammit." He muttered. He'd hoped the substitutes would have worked, but maybe it was too much of a long shot this time.

Dean tried a few more times before giving up. Bobby had told him that the glamour spells tended to work better under the dark of night, so maybe he could try one more time once the sun set.

Or it could be that he seriously needed birch. And there weren't no birch anywhere in the motel.

With a sigh, Dean packed up the materials and stuffed them in his duffle. He slumped at the edge of the bed and let out a heavy sigh. Behind him the wings responded with a slight flutter of their own.

They made his nose itch. He rubbed it, and stopped, pausing just long enough to check to make sure it hadn't grown.

He breathed a sigh of relief. This whole ordeal was going to drive him mad.

If the stupid things didn't have a mind of their own…

Dean frowned.

Maybe he'd been jumping the gun on this one. Making the wings invisible would mean nothing if he couldn't get the damn things under control. If just about every other supernatural creep could find a way to blend into the world, hiding this or that, or going invisible, then he could find a way to make the wings work. Hell, even Cas could look perfectly normal.

"Somebody shoot me now," he mumbled as he stood.

Cringing, Dean reached over his head to touch the enlarged feather dusters. The wing he poked quivered from the unwanted prodding before bursting into a flapping frenzy that caused several feathers to fly around his face. He swatted the dislodged feathers with his free hand and struggled not to sneeze. That was the last thing he needed--to be allergic to the stupid things.

Dean tried not to think how dumb he looked as he traced the edge of his wing. He was no contortionist so he couldn't reach the entire wing, but he was able to get a good idea how it worked and how big it was.

He let out a long, deep breath. Now to see if this worked.

He reached up his right arm towards the ceiling. Then, he wiggled his shoulder trying to coax the wing to follow. Instead of the wing spreading out like he'd hoped it would, it remained motionless, almost stuck, cemented in place behind him.

"Oh, come on," Dean said.

He did a small hop, hoping that would jiggle the wing into action. He pumped his fist. He rolled his shoulders. He waved his arms back and forth.

No such luck.

"What the hell," he grumbled. The wings couldn't just be there for show.

Dean collapsed onto the bed and stared at the wall. The pounding in his temples and his back was getting worse, and he felt like all of his energy was spent just from that little exercise alone.

Worse, he was out of options. He had no clue what to do with the damn things.

He shivered, finally realizing there was a chill to the morning. Perfect. With a heavy sigh, he folded his arms and rubbed his biceps for warmth. As he bowed his head, the wings drooped over his shoulders.

He immediately felt warmer as the feathers insulted his bare skin.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to be thankful for anything associated with the wings. In fact, he wouldn't be having any of these problems if not for the stupid things.

He was about to slap them away when he realized that the wings weren't rubbing against his skin. They hovered just above the skin, every so often quivering as they covered him. The more he thought about how cold he was and how nice it would be to wear a shirt, the closer they crept.

Dean pondered on that for a minute before he decided to try something else. He let go of his arms and swatted the wings away and thought about a nice long stretch. He reached his arms up, closed his eyes and arched his back, letting some of the night's tension roll off his shoulders. As he stretched, he felt the wings lengthen on either side, one extending higher than the other. When he was done the stretch, he felt that satisfied release throughout his entire body, including the wings.

Dean smiled despite himself.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

When Sam opened the door, he stopped, horrified.

Dean was standing in the middle of the motel room, his back to the door, with his wings extended. The span was greater than Sam had figured; the feathers spiked out, sharp and precise. But that wasn't what bothered Sam the most. He noticed Dean had his head rolled back and his eyes closed, almost as if he was relishing his otherworldliness.

"Dean!"

The wings flapped in a frantic maelstrom of air and feathers, leaving a bewildered Dean in their wake. Dean nearly toppled over as the wings flailed out of control. Quickly, Sam shut the door and locked it, ready to move in to either help his brother or restrain him, but once Dean found his balance, the frenzy calmed and Sam found himself able to relax.

A little.

"Dude." Dean exhaled as he slumped onto the edge of the bed. "Give a guy a heart attack."

Sam tossed the pizza box he was holding onto the dresser. "What were you doing?"

Dean rubbed his pale face and slouched his shoulders. "Trying to get the things to work so I could signal Hawkman to come and take me home." He gave a pointed look at Sam. "What the hell does it look like?"

Sam sighed. At least Dean's inappropriate humor was a small comfort throughout this fiasco, though he was uneasy at how pale Dean looked.

"Did you find anything?" Sam asked, deciding to divert the conversation to something a little less awkward and discomforting.

"No," Dean said. "Well, except I can't think too much or else they spaz out."

"That shouldn't be too hard."

Dean glared at him.

Sam forced a chuckle before he became serious again. "It's probably like walking or blinking. If you think too much about it, you stumble. You can consciously make your leg move or blink your eyelid, but it works better when you just let it come naturally."

"I don't want it to come naturally," Dean mumbled.

"I know, but it's better than…" Sam waved vaguely to the stray feathers that had settled onto the beds and floor.

Dean reached down and picked up one of them. Sam watched him pause long enough to twirl the offensive feather between his fingers, his tired eyes examining each feature. As he did, the wings ruffled and settled into a comfortable position flat on his back. Dean didn't flinch this time.

Sam said nothing as he watched. Dean had been cursed less than a day, yet he seemed to be taking to the changes better than Sam had expected. He wasn't sure what to make of it. While he was glad that Dean was adjusting so well, he also worried that Dean was adjusting _too_ well. He also was concerned that whatever was happening to him would continue at an exponential rate. How could they fix him if they were always two steps behind?

Sam kept his fears to himself. He knew he had to stay focused and aware enough to keep them both grounded.

Dean muttered something unintelligible under his breath and flicked the feather across the room. "So, what did you find out in the woods?"

Sam watched it softly glide through the air towards the floor and said, "Not much. I did follow the remains of a trail that seemed to run alongside Devil's Creek, but the trail went cold when I reached a thicket. They covered their tracks well, but I did find this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag.

Dean reached out his hand for it. Sam tossed him the bag. "Hex bag?" he asked.

"Whatever's left of one. I found it on the banks of the creek."

"So we're dealing with witches _and_ Satanists?"

"Apparently so."

Dean groaned. "Man, I hate witches."

"I know."

"Don't they usually stash these things in tight areas?" Dean shook the bag and examined the broken bones, herbs and clippings. He made a face and jiggled the bag for Sam to take it back. "The woods ain't exactly small and cozy." He stopped and pulled out a small twig. "Is this birch?"

"I think so." Sam frowned. "Why?"

Dean shook his head. "Just wondering."

Sam watched Dean study the twig for a moment longer, positive he was going to pocket it, but instead he put the twig back into the bag and tied it. "What'd you suppose they were doing with these out in the open?"

"Different hex bags are used for different reasons." Sam held out his hand and caught the bag as Dean tossed it. "We just have to find out what this one was for."

"Whatever it is, it can't be good."

Sam nodded. The fact they had witches and traditional Satanists at work in the same town set him on edge. There was some heavy spell work going on outside of town, but the reason eluded him. Add in the ritualistic murders and Sam knew that whatever was happening, it was big.

He stole a glance at Dean. He was leaning over, his head in his hands.

Sam sighed. Maybe Dean's issue was all a distraction to keep them from uncovering the truth. He just didn't know.

He hated it.

"I think I'm going to need to keep watch tonight to see if I can see anything."

Dean peeked through his fingers. "By yourself?"

Sam just looked at him. He couldn't be serious. "We already went over this. There's no way you can go out."

Dean rubbed his face. To Sam, he looked more than tired. He still looked pale from what happened the night before, and his eyes seemed slightly out of focus. Sam wasn't sure if these were just side affects from the pain, or if he'd exhausted himself from whatever he was doing before Sam had entered.

Before Sam had a chance to say anything, Dean rolled his head back and let out a loud groan. "I'm going crazy, Sam."

Sam walked to the bathroom, keeping an eye on Dean as he grabbed him a glass of water and some pills. "It's been a day."

"Yeah, a day too long."

Sam couldn't help but chuckle. Whatever was happening to Dean, he still seemed to be himself. That was comforting to Sam in all this mess.

He exited the bathroom and paused, his grip on the glass tightening as he stared at his brother.

"Dean?"

Dean slumped forward. Sam shoved the glass and pill on the table and darted to Dean's side, catching him by the upper arm before he fell over. Still, Dean barely seemed to notice him, his weight pushing toward the floor.

Sam gripped him by both shoulders and gave him a light shake. "Dean, come on. Snap out of it."

Dean let out a moan. Sam could tell he was close to passing out, or hurling, whichever came first. Carefully, Sam lowered him onto the floor and allowed him to lean on the bed. Then, he grabbed the water and pills off the table and came back to his brother.

With a nudge, he urged Dean to take them. Dean didn't protest.

After a quick swallow, Dean leaned his head back on the bed. "This freakin' sucks."

"Maybe you should just take it easy," Sam said. "Maybe get some sleep."

Dean shook his head as he finished the glass of water. "Dude, the last time I was unconscious, I grew wings. I don't want to wake up with a beak."

"I doubt you'll grow a beak."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sam left him on the floor and walked to the pizza box. The box was still warm, and if anything could cheer up his brother, he figured food would.

He reached the table, slid his laptop aside, and dropped the box on the surface. He turned to help Dean, but stopped when he noticed he was already on his feet, wobbly, but at least conscious.

Dean collapsed into his turned chair and reached for a slice. "Dude, I'm starving."

Sam nodded and pushed the box closer to Dean. His hunger was a good sign. Once he was sure Dean was okay, and he was sated, maybe convincing him to stay inside would be easier.

In reality, Sam knew that was wishful thinking, but it was all he had. Dean couldn't come with him into the forest. Wings or no wings, he was exhausted from his ordeal and his health would just slow them down.

It was up to Sam to figure out what was happening in the forest, and why witches and Satanists had bypassed their competitiveness and joined forces. Hopefully, Dean had the strength to keep his condition in check until they could both focus on it in earnest.

He glanced over at Dean. Some color had returned to his face as he happily shoveled the pepperoni pizza into his mouth. Greasy food probably wasn't the best thing for him to be eating, but Sam hadn't been in the mood to get into a food battle, and had grabbed the easiest thing.

While Dean was distracted and content, Sam decided to take the opportunity to shower and consider his next moves. He left Dean to his fat feast and walked into the bathroom, but before he closed the door, he stared into the shower and frowned.

"Didn't we used to have a bathmat?"

* * *

Sam had spent the entire afternoon bouncing back and forth between research on witches, Satanists, and winged creatures. And after hours of searching, he felt like he'd accomplished nothing on all three fronts.

Every single culture had some legend of creatures with wings, but they were always more animal than human. He was hard pressed to find any information where a person developed wings suddenly or over a period of time. The few additional cases he'd found seemed more mythic than folk legend, and it appeared Dean had already browsed those cases anyway.

Maybe he was going about this wrong. He was so focused on finding something humanoid with wings that he had ignored the more outlandish creatures in folklore. The legends and myths they studied were never absolute. Perhaps some of the more ludicrous creatures were in reality more human-appearing than not, with people embellishing their features as time passed. Werewolves were the perfect examples. If Sam concentrated on those types of creatures, he could possibly find something that might help and explain Dean's condition.

He sighed. As much as he wanted to spend all of his time trying to fix this mess, he couldn't ignore the case they were working. He closed the browser and looked down at the notes he'd taken earlier that afternoon.

He knew from experience how witches tended to operate, but each coven had their own set of idiosyncrasies. Male witches usually had different motivations than female witches, and something that slight could make the whole difference in what they were hunting. At least Sam knew they weren't dealing with pagan witches, as well as people who only _thought _they were witches.

The same for the Satanists. Sam knew they were dealing with actual Satanists just by the feel of the entire case. Satanists weren't flashy or ceremonial in a public way, unless they were in the middle of an important sacrifice or were using the occasion to taunt local law enforcement. They preferred to work behind the scenes, manipulating those around them, and carried an air of sophistication and prestige. Nothing less for the prince of darkness.

Why the two would suddenly join forces was news to him. Sam had heard from various hunters with more experience in the area that Satanists found witches to be messy, uncouth, and deprived. Witches found Satanists to be pompous, untrustworthy, and unwilling to get their hands dirty to get the job done. Together they could be unbeatable, but they rarely ever got past their hate for each other to get anything done.

Something big was going down in this town. He just knew it.

Sam rolled his shoulders to let out the kinks in his stiff muscles. He'd been sitting on his bed, hunched over his laptop for too long. He stole a glance to the table.

Dean was out cold, his head resting on the table surface beside the pizza box. Inside, there were half-eaten bits of crusts and pools of grease where a few stray slices remained. A toppled beer bottle lay against the side of Dean's head; luckily, it was empty. Sam had considered cleaning up the table an hour ago, but he didn't want to wake Dean. Especially not when he anticipated leaving any moment.

The sooner the better. He needed to escape from Dean for a while.

While Sam worked, Dean had attempted to watch some porn. At first Sam had thought it would be the perfect distraction to keep Dean from whining all day, but that proved to be a mistake. Sam had witnessed a range of reactions from Dean and his wings that he _never wanted to see ever again_, and therefore had banned his brother from watching any more porn while they were in the same building together, let alone the same room.

Sam closed down his laptop and, quietly, he slid off the bed and placed it on top of the dresser. While he was standing, he pulled back the curtains and peered out the window, past the parking lot and into the hills. Daylight was waning; within an hour it would be dark. Sam wanted to leave before it was too dark so he could situate himself in the woods before anything started.

If anything started at all.

He glanced back at Dean one more time before he grabbed his jacket, the keys to the Impala, and walked out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

When Dean awoke, the entire room was shrouded in darkness. He blinked a few times, suddenly freaked he might have gone blind, but he breathed out as the sleep peeled back and his senses returned.

He knew one thing: the wings seriously had to go. He couldn't keep second-guessing every damn thing.

Dean pulled himself to his feet and arched his back to let the tension out of his muscles. Behind him, the wings lengthened and, after a jerky shake, folded themselves neatly against his back.

He hated to admit it, but man, it felt good to stretch like that.

Deciding he didn't want to think about that at all, Dean rubbed his nose, and satisfied that it was still normal, he reached over to switch on the light. When the glow burned his eyes, he blinked a few times until his vision adjusted to the change, and then scanned the room. It didn't take long to figure out he was the only one there.

"Dammit," he muttered.

Sam had taken off. Dean pulled back the curtain an inch to check, and sure enough, the Impala was gone.

"Fantastic." The last thing he wanted was for Sam to be alone with witches and Satanists and God knew whatever else with his freaky powers.

Dean exhaled and rubbed his face. He wasn't feeling as tired or as sore, though he had some pain lingering in his back. At this point, he was glad for the relief and didn't care if it meant his body was getting used to the wings or not. The pain reminded him too much of…other things he'd rather forget.

He tapped his fingers on the table and thought about what to do. Screw it. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

Resolute, Dean went to his bed and stripped off the top sheet. He threw the sheet over his back and his wings, and draped it over his chest and shoulders for extra warmth. The wings flapped to protest, but he told them to shut up, and for once they actually listened.

His duffle was already packed from earlier. Dean snatched it from the side of the bed and paused by the table. He grabbed a slice of pizza, held it between his teeth, and headed out the door.

* * *

Walking across town to get to the forest sucked. The town was small, and most people seemed to be inside their warm homes for the night. Dean couldn't thank the powers that be enough that he and Sam had ended up in the town time forgot and not in a big city where it took thirty minutes just to get through main street with tons of prying eyes from unwelcome night owls, gangs, and hookers.

Maybe not the hookers. He wouldn't mind their appreciative eyes.

But the wing thing would have been five times as bad in a city, since some yahoo would get that he wasn't just a belated Halloween freak. Then again, small towns had even worse yahoos, ones that were far more superstitious, so he didn't know really which was worse at this point.

A raw wind nipped at his skin and he shivered, bringing the mustard yellow sheet closer to his chest. He really wished that when the wings had exploded out of his back, he'd been wearing a shirt. The shirt would have been ripped to shreds, but he'd still have _something_. Winter was coming soon and…

Dean stopped. No way was he going to start thinking like that. The damn wings would be gone well before the first flake of snow hit the Impala's windshield. And if not, then they were doing nothing but taking jobs in the South until this mess got fixed.

He tried not to think too much about the future as he walked down the solitary path to the forest's edge. Dean didn't see any cars parked along the outskirts, but then again, Sam knew better than to keep the Impala visible. She'd have been hidden good to keep her out of sight.

When he reached the fringe of the forest, he stopped again, this time double-checking his duffle. He had everything he needed for Bobby's glamour spell and some spare weapons in case things got hairy when he found Sam.

Satanists were crafty bastards, and witches were just plain gross, so he knew he'd have to be on top form as he started weaving through the woods. The trees made perfect cover. Plus, he figured the cops would be out in full force, both keeping watch on the crime scene and for any other nasty bloodbaths.

Dean breathed out and stepped into the woods.

The ground was moist and dark, like the foliage around him. With the forest in eastern Oklahoma as dense as it was, Dean felt like he was a sardine rammed into the world's smallest can. He wasn't able to thread through the compacted trees as easily as he normally could. The stupid sheet kept getting tangled in the branches or on thorns low to the ground, or one of the wings would ram into the side of a tree and it would hurt like hell.

He wasn't sure how long he traveled; the trees and bushes blurred into blobs of muted greens and browns under the half-moon. He knew he'd hiked quite a distance once the sheet--and disgustingly, some of the feathers from the wings--started to stick to his skin, while he felt the droplets of sweat running down his back.

Ahead, he found some relief. He saw a small, yet invasive stream, running its course through the forest. It was wide enough that he couldn't just hop it, but it wasn't shallow enough that he could easily splash through it. But damn, he knew that water would be cold, even if it only went to his calves.

This had to be Devil's Creek. If it was, that meant he'd have to be more careful. Witches and the like could be fussing around, running their black mojo like nobody's business. Sam could be nearby, too. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to both him and Sam.

Dean hesitated. The sheet was going to be a massive pain wet, and he'd need it to get back to the motel. Not really wanting to give up his less than stellar shield, Dean unwrapped the sheet from his shoulders and shoved it into his duffle.

The air was like ice on his wet skin and he shivered. He went over some of the lyrics to his fave tunes to avoid thinking about the flutter the wings were making from their newfound freedom, but it wasn't really helping. The things were loud. He wished he could mute them in the worst way.

"Quiet," he hissed.

It only took a minute for his body to grudgingly adjust to the cold air. The wings stilled, for the most part, and once he had made sure the sheet was secure, double-checked his gun which was snug along the small of his back, and tucked the duffle under his arm, he was good to go.

The cold water was nasty, but he found some polished stones along the stream to follow which made him slightly less waterlogged. He swore the next job they took was going to be someplace warm and dry, like a resort. Why did they never hunt haunted resorts? Or at least a haunted brothel?

Dean hopped over the last part of the stream and onto the somewhat dry land. After he shook his legs out, he started up a small incline, away from the stream and into a new patch of forest.

He paused along the way at the sight of a river birch. He was positive that was birch if his memory served him right. It wasn't like he could forget. Dean swore that Sam's tree fetish from when he was eleven was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

He snapped off a twig and smiled before heading up the hill.

Once Dean hit the top of the incline, he stopped and frowned. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but he suddenly felt different than before, lighter and freer, almost as if his chest had opened up and a sack of bricks had been removed from on top of his shoulders.

His pulse quickened. Sam had mentioned hex bags near here somewhere. Then another thought occurred to him. He looked to the large expansive sky and felt his stomach bottom out.

"Oh God," he mumbled. "Don't let me fly away."

But he didn't. The wings stayed folded behind his back, barely moving aside from an occasional rustle from the wind. He lingered for only a minute, still unnerved at the sensation, but decided he'd have to deal with it later.

Dean trudged through the forest until he found a clearing small enough to hold his stuff. He stopped and cringed, concerned how every little move seemed to thunder through the quiet forest, but ripped open the duffle anyway, quickly finding the ghetto materials for the glamour spell. He rolled out the bathmat, the gunk from the bathroom, the twig, and the beaten up paper bowl. After he filled the bowl, he brought out the candles and matches, along with the spell Bobby gave him, and started to chant.

As the waters started to blacken, he finished the chant and sucked in a deep breath. It was now or nothing.

Dean focused on how he wanted to appear and stared into the bowl.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sam crouched low in the forest and kept his senses on high alert for any movement. The forest itself was remarkably quiet with the marked absence of noise associated with the nocturnal animals. He knew he should hear something, and the dead quiet was making him restless.

Two hours and still no sign of witches or the Satanists. Sam realized it was possible that they had decided to do their spell work elsewhere, but he really had anticipated the Satanists to be arrogant enough to try the rituals near the same location.

He was about to move a little farther down stream when he heard a crunch in the woodland to his south. Through the dead silence, the noise was deafening. The shuffling was the first noise he'd heard all night, and immediately set Sam on the prowl.

He kept his body low as he retraced his steps through a heavy thicket. Sam tried to keep his footfalls as quiet as possible, but even breathing seemed to echo throughout the dark woodland. He stopped after he stepped on a twig, wincing as the snap shattered the night silence like a speeding rock on a windshield. When nothing happened, he took a deep breath and continued.

By now, he could smell hints of something burning - some kind of wood or herb. Though it could easily be something from the forest itself, his instincts told him much differently.

Sam knew witchcraft and spell work.

And he was right. When he broke through into a very small clearing, he found a young girl in a cheerleading outfit leaning over a scattering of items on the ground. Rigid and soundless, she seemed cemented to the spot. Sam realized she was probably only just breaking out of the spell.

He drew his gun and pointed it at her back. "Hands up and step away from the altar."

She jerked and broke out of her daze only to turn to him with a confused face. "Dude. What the hell?"

Sam froze. The inflection of her voice was way too familiar, and betrayed the softness of her tone. He had to be hearing things.

"Hands where I can see them," Sam demanded.

She glanced down at her lap, and letting out a heavy sigh, she slumped her shoulders. "Super."

Sam shifted from one foot to the next. He _was_ imagining things. But when his gaze fell to Dean's duffle bag and the somewhat familiar items scattered on the bed of leaves on the ground, he started to get a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Dean?"

The girl reached behind her back and while raising her free hand in a non-threatening way, she pulled out Dean's engraved gun and placed it on the ground. Then, she unhooked a small knife from around her ankle and did the same.

Sam fought back the urge to roll his eyes and started to lower his gun. He didn't feel threatened, but he couldn't bring himself to put the gun away. First there were the wings. Now there was spell work. Sam wasn't keen on the pattern that was starting with his brother.

"Do I really want to know why you switched genders?" he asked.

Dean scowled at him. "I'm not supposed to be a chick. The friggin' spell went all wrong." She--he--started to ram the altar items into the open duffle. "Too many distractions."

"Let me guess. I'm the distraction."

"If the shoe fits…"

"Dean."

"Hey, I was doing just fine until you showed up. You totally broke my concentration."

"You think of cheerleaders when you're distracted?" Sam shook his head. "Never mind," he said, deciding it was better for Dean not to answer. "I should know better than to ask."

Dean grunted and shoved more materials into the duffle. Sam watched their runaway bathmat disappear into the folds of the duffle. At least now he knew where it had gone.

Sam knew he shouldn't ask, but with everything that had happened over the past day, he needed to for some peace of mind. "Where are your wings?"

Dean glanced over his back and then down to his chest. He grinned.

"Dean?"

"You told me control the wings or make them disappear." His smirk grew. "They're gone."

"At what price?"

Dean groaned. "Don't get your panties in a twist. They're still here. It's just a glamour spell."

"I can see that." He sighed. "And really, Dean? Panties in a twist? I don't think I should be the one worried."

Dean's face reddened, and he tugged his skirt down. "Shaddup."

Sam remained lookout as he allowed Dean a few minutes to finish packing and get a handle on his appearance. When he realized that Dean was staring at his chest more than anything else, he decided it was time to go.

He nudged Dean on the arm to break him from his stare and motioned toward the forest. While he was certain they were alone, he would feel safer if they were on the move. They'd remained in one position way too long.

Sam and Dean set up a post north of the crime scene. Yellow police tape still roped off the spot where the murders had been committed. Ratty and torn, the tape indicated that the cops hadn't paid much attention to the site in days. There were no signs that anyone else had touched the crime scene, though Sam knew that could be misleading. He had entered just yesterday and left no tracks.

Neither one said anything while they waited, knowing any sounds could give up their location. Sam was already uncomfortable how much they had spoken out in the open at Dean's spell site, but it didn't seem to make an impact on their current standing.

The silence still bothered Sam. Night was a busy time for creatures that roamed the forests and hills. There should be activity in the area. At most, he could hear the tremble of Dean's invisible wings from the cold, as well as he and Dean's rhythmic breathing as they tried to keep quiet. Yet, nothing else stirred in the woods.

Sam spent the next hour scouting the entire crime scene and beyond. As he mentally inventoried the landscape, he tried to puzzle together what they knew so far. He still hadn't been able to figure out what the hex bag was for, unless it was a way to keep unwanted visitors from the ritual site. Satanists usually performed rituals for power or access to power, so he assumed they were trying to tap into something important. He just couldn't think what could be so vital that witches and Satanists would work toward a common goal.

He knew he couldn't just assume this was about the seals. It felt much more complicated than that.

And he still didn't know how Dean's wings fit into everything.

Sam stole a glance over his shoulder to where Dean was crouching. Like Sam, he was watching the landscape, mentally noting details about the crime scene in his own way. His outward appearance might be deceiving, but Sam could see the intensity in his eyes. Whatever had happened to Dean, it hadn't dulled his brother's keen senses. He knew something was wrong as well.

As the night hours waned, Dean broke the silence.

"Nobody's gonna show." His voice was high and soft. Sam still struggled with the sound.

"Maybe they know we're here. Maybe they know who we are."

Dean sighed, moving to slouch on a nearby rock. "If they've got demons yapping at their ears, they'd have known us the minute we came to town and busted our asses."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

Sam cringed as Dean leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Dude, cross your legs."

Dean muttered something about sexism under his breath and crossed his legs.

"Maybe," Sam said, continuing, "they know we're here and they're waiting for us to make a move."

"Make a move? Like what?"

"I don't know."

"That's helpful."

"And running around looking like a girl from a soft-core porn movie is helpful?" Sam stopped when he realized what he'd said. "That's where you got her from, didn't you?"

He swore he saw Dean's cheeks blush. "Maybe."

Sam shook his head. He just hoped Dean was legal or there were going to be a ton of uncomfortable questions when they got back into town.

When daylight started to warm the skies from a deep indigo to a pale shade of blue, Sam knew it was time to go. Dean had already grabbed his bag and was just waiting for Sam to follow. Sam was reluctant to go, but he couldn't figure out if he was missing something or if he was just being stubborn over a wasted night.

Finally, he gave into Dean's impatient glares and insults. The two of them headed back the way they'd come with Sam in the lead in the direction of the Impala.

"Satanists are arrogant," Sam said, as they worked their way through a thick section of forest. "They like to flaunt their cleverness in the faces of those they think are ignorant."

"Well, they're certainly not flaunting here," Dean said. Sam heard him sigh. "I don't know, Sammy. Something about this place just ain't right."

"Yeah…there were murders here."

"No, I mean. I was thinking what you said." He paused as he hopped over a log. "And we know Satanists do the whole blood sacrifice thing, but they have OCD worse than you do."

Sam rolled his eyes as he continued down the makeshift path. "Yeah."

"So, they'd never trash their ritual the way they left it."

He'd thought about it. The ritual was precise enough to catch their initial attention, but it was sloppier than most ritual sacrifices they'd researched. Parts of the report even had the makings of a Hollywood movie. Yet, other parts felt right. Sam had been around the hunter world long enough to recognize the real signs of a legit sacrifice. He wondered if the minor sloppiness was the witches' influence, or like he'd considered before, a show of strength and power. Maybe a warning to the town.

"I don't know, man," Dean said. "I feel like we're being played somehow."

Sam actually agreed with Dean on that point. He just wished he could figure out what it was.

When they reached the top of the hill near the creek, Sam stopped and surveyed the trek down. It was only a small hill, but there was something about the way the newborn sunbeams kept hitting the creek that made Sam's hair stand on end.

Dean came to stand beside him and frowned. "What're you staring at?"

"I thought I saw something in the water."

Sam skidded down the hill, fighting off the weight of the early morning, and made his way to the banks of Devil's Creek. He heard Dean start to follow and then a loud curse. Sam turned around.

Dean was tangled in some tree. From where Sam stood, it looked like his long blonde hair was snarled in a branch, but Sam knew better. That was all part of the illusion. He knew that Dean's wings were stuck somehow.

"I'll be back," Sam said. He left Dean to his cries of protest as he struggled to untangle his invisible wings from the barbs in the tree.

Sam started to investigate the creek. After a few seconds of searching, he reached into the icy waters and withdrew a small beaded chain.

"Well, one thing's for sure," Sam said. "There's no devil in this creek." Sam held up a rosary.

Dean stopped fighting with the tree to squint at the rosary in Sam's hands. "Rosary beads? Seriously?"

"And a bunch of other stuff…"

Sam didn't know what to think. A stray set of rosary beads in a creek was one thing and could easily be explained away in normal circumstances, but this job was anything but normal. And as far as Sam could tell, so was this creek.

Upon closer examination, the waters were filled with various objects, inscriptions, and large plaques that had incantations carved onto their surfaces. He took another look at the rosary. Unlike the regular rosaries people carried, there were strange sigils painted on every bead.

"Dean, this place is a literal mecca of arcane magic. I've never seen half these symbols."

"Oh, fantastic. Could this case get any weirder?" He tugged at the tree. "Or any worse?"

"Much worse," Sam said as he raised his hands and looked down the barrel of a gun.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Dean twisted his head to see the pretty girl from the diner pointing a pistol at his back. Further down the hill, the town sheriff had his shotgun aimed at Sam's chest. Dean wasn't really sure how they'd snuck up on them, but given the fact both he and Sam had been preoccupied with other pressing matters, he wouldn't be surprised if they'd been ready to jump them for the past few minutes.

"Hey Sheriff," Dean said, trying to ignore the foreign sound of his voice. "Problem?"

Sheriff Johnson ignored him for now, keeping his attention solely focused on Sam. "What are you doing out here, Detective Tate?"

"Just searching the woods for any additional clues."

Johnson arched his eyebrows and glanced over to Dean. "That's some unique investigative techniques you have there."

Dean felt his face grow hot, but not even the heat could warm his frozen body. He shivered.

Sam cleared his throat. "It's not what it looks like."

"Isn't it now?" He jerked the barrel of the gun toward the hilltop where Dean remained tangled. "Get up there now."

Dean watched Sam nod and lift his hands, but not before he pocketed the rosary beads. The two climbed up the incline to the thick patch of brush and saplings where Dean and the girl stood waiting.

"Where's your partner?" Johnson asked.

Sam gave Dean a quick look but his face refused to break. "He's still in town."

"Hmm." Johnson didn't seem all that convinced. Dean had a sinking feeling this was going to get a whole lot worse.

"I called the main office. You know, check up on your history so I could better help you folks." He paused and narrowed his eyes. "Seems like they never heard of you."

Dean let out a nervous chuckle. Sam gave him a warning glare. Instead of saying another word, Dean sighed and gave his shoulder a shake to try to dislodge the wing, but the damn thing refused to move.

"There must be a mistake," Sam said.

"No mistake." Johnson's voice grew hard. "You aren't who you say you are, and now I find you out near the site of a murder with a young girl all by your lonesome. Doesn't look good to me." He snapped his fingers at the diner girl. "Get her out of there."

"Whoa," Dean said, and as he held out his free hand to keep her away, the free wing flapped with confusion.

The girl frowned, her eyes searching for the sound of the noise, but the spell held, keeping the wings concealed from sight.

"I'll do it myself," Johnson grumbled and nodded for the diner girl to watch Sam. Johnson came up behind Dean, and with a swift tug, yanked him out of the thorny overgrown bushes.

Dean let out a cry as the thorns ripped at the thin skin that lined the wings. Johnson seemed a little unnerved by Dean's shout, and maybe a little more unnerved as one of Dean's invisible wings smacked him in the face, but that didn't stop him from bringing Dean into the open.

He bit down the pain, the wings pulsing from the scraping and irritation. The pain only worsened when he realized Johnson was about to search him.

"Kinda funny," Dean said, raising his hands. "Cops outsourcing to diners is a new one for me."

"You think you're smart?"

"I'm a regular Veronica Mars." Dean winced as the sheriff frisked his back, just missing the wings, and pulled the gun off his body. Hard. "Dude, that's sexual harassment. I can sue."

Johnson said nothing as he removed the rest of Dean's weapons. After he was done checking them both, he shoved Dean toward Sam and urged them down the hill.

Sam and Dean moved toward Devil's Creek, keeping their hands visible. With Johnson and the girl following directly behind them, armed and appearing all too eager to use their weapons, they decided to play it safe. For now. First chance they got, Dean was giving Sam the signal for them to bolt.

By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, Dean was starting to feel tired and sluggish. He wasn't sure if it was a side effect of the spell or maybe the wing ordeal was wearing him out again.

He looked to the side and saw Sam watching him.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"I feel like I'm wading through cobwebs," he mumbled.

This seemed to alarm Sam. "You feel that, too?"

Dean frowned at him. He hadn't thought anyone could feel the shift in the air. Going up the hill he felt lighter. Going down the hill he felt heavier. His gaze fell to the creek.

He had an idea.

"Hey, does this creek surround the whole town?" Dean asked Johnson.

"Shut up and keep walking."

Dean muttered under his breath, but sent a triumphant look to Sam. Something really was up in this town, and that something was way more important than they'd originally thought. Dean was willing to bet that Devil's Creek circled the entire town, in some form or another, with all those little bits and charms and symbols lining it the whole way. Sam knew it, too. Dean could practically see Sam's mind at work.

When they stopped at the banks of the creek, a little farther than where Dean had initially crossed early that night, Johnson gave the girl the order to cross first. Dean shook his leg and tapped his foot as he waited for her to jump to the other side, finally starting to get tetchy as the pounding in the wings seemed to spread through his back muscles. The injured one stayed limp the entire time, but the other one seemed as agitated as he was, and kept fluttering and flapping in the cold morning breeze. He kept coughing to try to cover the noise, but Johnson was giving him looks, and Sam didn't seem all too impressed.

Sam crossed next, then Dean, followed by Johnson. When they reached the other side, the four of them fell into step again, the girl and Johnson taking the rear, weapons drawn.

Dean winced and squirmed. Both the throbbing and the shivering were starting to seriously tick him off.

Sam leaned closer to Dean and whispered, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I should have picked Xena. She could kick ass."

"Dean."

Dean glanced over his shoulder. "They're either really awesome magicians or the dumbest part of Satan's happy hour."

"Devil's Creek is a misnomer. There is nothing evil about it at all," Sam said, and Dean swore he was getting excited off the whole idea. "No birds. No animals. No sounds. It all makes sense. It's a protection charm. Some kind of barrier."

"These folks are hiding something in town they don't want no one nabbing."

"The question is, are these two working for it or against it?"

It was a good question.

Dean didn't have much time to ponder it. The girl let out a scream that pierced the quiet morning. Her cry caused him to jump and nearly topple an equally surprised Sam. When he turned, Dean noticed her face was blanched a deathly shade of white, while the gun, barely centered, wavered unsteadily in her shaking hand. Johnson's face was just as white, though instead of loosening his grip on his gun, it tightened, and his jaw became tense and angry.

Dean looked at Sam. He was staring.

At him.

Feeling that sinking feeling return, Dean looked down at his hands. His very masculine looking hands.

"Crap."

"What the hell are you?" Johnson asked, his nervous gaze bouncing between Sam and Dean. "How did you manage to come here?"

Dean mulled over his choice of words, but Sam jumped in before he could say anything.

"We can explain this," Sam said.

Good luck with that. Dean couldn't explain any of this to himself. There was no way they could make a bunch of civvies get the coming apocalypse or seals or dudes wearing wings.

"Are you angels?" the girl asked.

Dean shook his head, despite the wings seeming to protest otherwise. He swatted at the frantic, uninjured one.

"Not even close," Sam answered.

"We were supposed to meet the angels at a designated location, but not here," she said.

Dean stared. Now this was news to him. He searched Sam for any suggestions, but Sam just shrugged.

"Daria," Johnson hissed.

She rolled her eyes and lowered her gun. "Demons can't get past the creek, Dad."

"Neither can angels!" His gun never wavered. "Stay there," he warned them.

Dean and Sam kept their arms raised, but nothing was lost between their significant looks. Suddenly, Castiel's absence made a whole lot more sense to him. In fact, the whole damn town made more sense.

"I don't know what the hell you are, but you're going to tell me how you broke past the barrier. Nothing supernatural can break through. Nothing. Only humans can pass into this town."

Dean perked up. He suddenly felt a whole lot better about his situation, and whatever was happening to his brother. "Hear that? Only humans. You and me? We're human," Dean said proudly.

"I heard."

"So no more of this stupid harpy crap."

Sam glared at him.

"Why are you here?" Johnson asked, interrupting Sam's longsuffering look. "How did you get here? How did you past the barrier?"

"Because we're human," Dean said.

Johnson eyed his wings.

"That's just a technicality," offered Sam.

"Nothing can break through," Johnson insisted. Then his face fell slack. "Unless…are you _them_?"

"Them?" Dean asked. His teeth chattered as he fought back another wave of shivers. "What them?"

Daria grabbed onto her father's sleeve and shook it. "I…don't think they are."

Dean lowered his arms and slapped his legs with frustration. One thing was for sure, he was getting sick of all this smoke and mirrors garbage. Between Castiel's tests and the seals here, there, and everywhere, and Sam doing whatever the hell he'd been doing, he'd about had it with all the secrets.

"I'm no angel," he said finally. "And neither is my brother. I'm human. We're human, and that's how we go through. These..." He motioned behind his back. "Never mind those."

He felt Sam watching him, questioning him through the silence, but Dean wasn't in the mood to argue with him. Not unless he was spoiling for a fight.

"My brother's cursed," Sam told them, ignoring Dean's groan of protest. "Something's happened to him, and we don't know what, but I can assure you it has nothing to do with your barrier."

Dean didn't know how Sam could be so certain, but that wasn't what was niggling at the back of his head right now. He hated when Sam told people about their jobs -- anything about their lives--even if it was obvious these people did some dabbling in magic.

While that irked him to no end, it was the expression on Johnson's face that bugged him the most. The sheriff frowned, and it was evident he wasn't even trying to hide his confusion. Dean's belly flopped. He didn't like where this was going.

"No, it can't be."

"What?" they said together.

"This place is a magic dead zone. No spells work within the bubble."

It was Dean's turn to frown. "None? At all?"

"None."

Dean realized that explained a lot. Summoning Castiel hadn't worked at all, and neither had his glamour spell back in the motel room. Dean guessed nothing would work. Not even magic by witches or Satanists.

He stared back into the forest and thought back to the crime scene. At least it made sense why they hadn't tried anything in the comfort of their own homes.

But Sam was a step ahead of him on this train of thought. "What about spells or curses performed before coming into town?"

"You saw for yourself." Johnson waved his shotgun at Dean. "They break down. Doesn't matter what it is. It can't last in this town."

Sam gave him a smug, knowing look. Dean rolled his eyes. He hated that.

"At least we know your wings aren't from a witch or black magic," Sam said in a low voice.

"Yeah. So where the hell did they come from?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know, but I think we both have a good idea."

Dean didn't like that idea, and apparently those who might know couldn't show their faces in town anyway. That was perfect.

He turned back to the sheriff. They had reached an impasse. Johnson and his daughter Daria no longer had their weapons raised, but they didn't move either, still struck by Dean's appearance. Neither he nor Sam moved either, not because they were afraid of an attack, but because they knew the sheriff might hold the key to unraveling this mess and were at a loss of where to go next.

"Why are you really here?" Johnson finally asked.

Sam and Dean exchanged a knowing look, but before Dean could stop him, Sam spoke.

"Have you heard of hunters?"

Dean lowered his voice to a gruff whisper. "Sam…"

Sam held up a hand to shush him, which ticked Dean right off, but Sam didn't seem to care. Johnson cocked his head and shoved the shotgun under his armpit. "Go on."

"We hunt demons, so when we heard about the murders right outside of town, we came to investigate." Sam stopped, glanced at Dean, and the two of them waited for Johnson's reaction. When he didn't break, to Dean's dismay, Sam continued. "If you have any information that could help, we'd like to try to stop whatever this is."

"I think we've got it covered."

"I think you don't," Sam said, causing the sheriff to stiffen. Dean tensed in return, his fingers itching for the other knife he had hidden on his body. "This isn't just about protecting your town," Sam continued. "This is about stopping something maliciously intent on destroying you."

"He's right," Dean said. "If you got witches and Satanists working right outside your little bubble, then you are way beyond screwed. This is way, way out of your league."

"Who are you to talk?" Johnson asked. "My family's been in this town for over a hundred years. We've made a promise to fortify this place against anything. You're just two wise guys with--" He stopped and glared at Dean. "Other issues to worry about."

Dean could feel the burn in his face as his patience dwindled.

Johnson chewed on his lip as he studied the two of them. Finally, with a shake of his head, he raised his shotgun and pointed to the trail behind them. "I'm taking you down to the station. Terry'll know what to do with you."

Dean let out a loud groan. This was the last thing he wanted. It was probably the last thing Terry wanted, too. And from the irritated look on Sam's face, Dean knew it definitely wasn't anything Sam wanted.

"At least maybe we'll finally figure something out," Dean muttered, rubbing his arms.

Sam eyed him suspiciously. "What?"

"What's so important about little ol' Dixville anyway?"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The drive back into town was anything but pleasant. While Sam had had the displeasure of riding in cop cars before, this particular ride took the cake. For the entire ride, he was trapped in the backseat with Dean, which was bad enough on a good day, but even worse with his wing problem. The good wing did nothing but twitch and flap around in the confined space, while the damaged one hung limp between them, emitting an odor reminiscent of bad cheese. Dean himself couldn't seem to sit still; his fidgeting made the cramped compartment seem even smaller, and his unintelligible mutters were giving Sam a headache. He was beyond thankful once they pulled up to the rear of the sheriff's office.

Dean leaned forward and peered outside the window. "Back way?"

Johnson didn't turn around. "I'd like as few people seeing you as possible."

Dean huffed and slumped back as far as he could.

After Johnson exited the car, he grabbed Sam first. Sam gave a wary look back to the car as he was led away, not liking the idea that he and Dean were obviously being separated. While he couldn't blame the sheriff for taking precautions, he knew that any wrong move could mean both he and Dean could end up dead. They needed to be prepared to fight even if it meant turning on the local law enforcement.

Johnson's deputy was waiting for him at the door, and after a quick, bewildered look in Dean's general direction, the officer cuffed Sam, took him by the shoulder and shoved him inside.

"You're making a mistake," Sam warned them, but neither officer was listening.

"Sheriff?" The deputy, named Owens, kept stealing nervous glances to the parked car. "Did I just see--?"

"Don't worry about that," Johnson told him. "Just get this one into questioning. I'll take the other one downstairs."

When the color drained from Owens' face, an uneasy shiver crept down Sam's back.

"They aren't supposed to come through. You said--"

"I said not to worry about it."

Owens didn't argue. He grabbed Sam and led him down the corridor to a small room. Owens urged him inside and instructed him to sit down. Sam did as he was told, taking a moment to inventory the room. Dixville might be small, but Sam had to marvel at how sophisticated their interrogation room was.

The fact the town had only a general store, but had a fully modernized interrogation room, told Sam all he needed to know about the priorities of Dixville.

Owens said nothing as he waited by the door. He kept his eyes on Sam, though the occasional nervous glance would find the hallway. Beyond Sam's line of sight, he could hear shuffling near the end of the hall and Dean's distinct insults and protests. Then there was a loud bang as the sound of feet faded downward.

Sam didn't want to know what the basement looked like.

Silence pressed on the space between them as the minutes ticked away. Owens became more and more agitated, stopping to wipe his sweaty face between pacing by the doorway. He would poke his head outside, whip around to glare at Sam, and then start the process over again.

Sam sat with his cuffed hands resting in his lap. The clock in the corner of the room told him a good fifteen minutes had passed, but Owens seemed none the wiser.

"Doesn't questioning usually involve talking?" Sam finally asked.

"Shut up," Owens muttered. He returned to his vigil by the door.

Sam shrugged and leaned forward. Owens had his hand by his sidearm. Even distracted, Sam knew he didn't have enough time to rush him without getting shot. The deputy was too nervous and afraid to think clearly in a fight, which could be either to his advantage or disadvantage. Sam couldn't risk it. Not yet.

He glanced at the clock. Another fifteen minutes had passed, going on twenty. He needed to get out of here.

"What is it?" Owens finally asked, crossing the room to loom over him.

"What?" Sam decided to play dumb for now.

"You know what. Your buddy in the car. What is he? How did you manage to get him into town?"

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but stopped and frowned, watching as a man in a white coat with a small bag hurried down the hallway. He disappeared from view, and once again, Sam heard the thunder of steps as they led downward.

He squirmed in his seat. He had to get down there. Now.

The deputy rubbed at his chin and tapped his foot. "Screw this," he finally said, and grabbed Sam by the arm. "Tina!"

"Hey," Sam said, as he was pulled to his feet.

A woman appeared at the door, Tina he presumed, and rested her hand on her sidearm as she appraised him. "Yeah?" she asked.

"Take this one to lockup. If he tries anything, shoot him."

"Wait, the sheriff told you to keep me in here," Sam said.

Owens ignored him. "Just get him to a cell."

Tina eyed Sam again before turning to Owens. "I just picked some guy up who I think you and Dan might want to talk to."

"It'll have to wait." He withdrew his sidearm. "I'm not letting that thing alone with Terry and Dan."

Sam swallowed hard. He couldn't let this happen. He started to search the room for anything he could use against the officers, but the interrogation room was clean. He knew he was far better trained than either of them combined, but he just couldn't chance it.

He felt Tina's gun press into his side. "Move," she said.

He started down the hallway, feeling the very real presence of the gun as she jammed it into his back. The hallway opened as they walked, and he felt the nudge to turn right. When he did, he saw a thick iron door with bars ahead. Inside, various cells, some closed and occupied and others slightly ajar, waited for him.

"This is a mistake," he told Tina. "Get Sheriff Owens. He'll tell you what's going on."

She snorted. "Likely story." She unlocked the main door and pushed him. "Inside."

Sam shuffled inside the cell room. There were five jail cells on either side of him. Three of them were occupied: one with a teenager who was staring into a world of his own, another with a woman in a short mini and heavy makeup, and the third with a man in his late twenties, armed with piercing eyes, who watched their every move.

Tina guided Sam to an empty cell.

"It's good to know you take your job so seriously," Sam said, forcing a smile as Tina shoved him inside.

"Don't be a wiseass." Tina locked the cell. "The sheriff will talk to you when he's done."

Sam called after her to come back, but she ignored him. With a loud clang, the iron door locked into place, leaving him with the three other jailed occupants.

He sighed and leaned against the bars. This wasn't how he'd planned for the day to start. If Dean had just stayed in the motel room, they wouldn't have run into this problem. Now, he had no idea what to expect, and Dean, wherever he was, could be in even worse danger.

The woman was smiling at him, while the man kept watching him. Sam adjusted his shirt. The people in this town gave him the creeps.

"You can't trust any of them."

Sam started. The teenager in the cell beside him had broken from his vacant stare and now stood by the bars, trying to act as casual as possible, but failing miserably. His voice came out only a whisper.

"Who?" Sam asked. He glanced to the side. The man and woman were still watching him.

"You can't trust any of them. Any of them, you know?" He coughed and rubbed at the spacers in his ears. "Not any of them."

"Who?" Sam asked again, feeling the agitation burning like fire under his skin. "What--?"

"I know. You're Winchester. Sam Winchester. I know." He shook his head. "Oh man, I know."

Sam felt his face go slack. "What do you know?"

There was laughter from across the room. The woman grinned and showed her broken teeth. "Little Billy is talking mad again. He's insane, you know? Killed a man."

Sam studied the teen. He was becoming more and more troubled as the minutes passed.

"I know you. I know you and Dean. You hunt. They knew. They knew you would come."

"Who are they?"

"Oh you know. Out in the woods." His voice faltered and he nearly choked on the last word. "The people in the woods."

"Witches?"

He laughed once and shook his head. "Oh God, no. No." Billy sucked in a deep breath and pulled his hair back, exposing a scar on his left temple. "The others. The black eyes. All their black eyes."

Sam felt cold. Demons. There was an army of demons gathering in the woods, and they wanted into town.

"They're trying to break the magic barrier," Sam said, watching as the boy nodded. "There's something here in town."

Billy nodded. "They knew you'd come. They knew you'd get through. They told me. They told lots of us. They told and told and promised. And promised no more pain. No more."

There was something important hidden in Dixville, so important the demons were staking out the entire town.

So important that they were using Sam and Dean to get to it.

The demons had spies everywhere. He had to warn Dean.

Still cuffed, Sam shook the bars, looking for any weakness. When he found none, he bent low and peered inside the lock, trying to catch a glimpse of the mechanism inside. He found it odd that the interrogation rooms were so polished, but the actual jail cells were old-fashioned. Then he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Dixville didn't hold prisoners for very long, and he doubted most of them walked free.

"I need to get out of here."

"Join the club," said the man across from him. "I shouldn't even be in here." He glared at the woman.

Sam really didn't care about a prostitute and her john. He needed to get into the basement and to Dean before anything happened.

"Here," came the voice beside him. Billy popped out one of his spacers and cracked it open to reveal a small, thin, metal rod. He held it out to Sam and offered a nervous smile. "Go make it better. Please."

Sam extended his cuffed hands as far as he could and grabbed the rod. He gave Billy a doubtful look. He had been carrying this the entire time, but never made a move to escape.

"I'm safer in here," Billy whispered, as if reading his mind. "So safe."

Sam thanked him and started working the lock on his handcuffs. They snapped easily, giving Sam plenty of time to work on his cell lock. It took a few tries, but finally he managed to pop it.

"Come back for me. Come back," Billy said, his voice becoming fainter and fainter as his eyes slid under a fearful glaze. "You gotta get me out of here, man. You gotta promise. Promise…"

"I promise," Sam said. With that, he took a deep breath. He hoped this worked.

"Help!" he yelled. "He's choking!"

The large iron door clicked opened and Tina ran in, her face a mask of confusion. To Sam's surprise, the prostitute started to scream, while the businessman started pointing. The boy doubled over and coughed until his face turned blue.

Tina ran over to the cell where Billy was coughing and spasming, only she never made it. As she approached, Sam swung out the door and smacked her in the face. She stumbled back, dazed, and Sam took the opportunity to jump her. One punch to the face and she was out cold. He grabbed the keys and her gun before he dragged her body into the empty cell and locked it.

"Us too!" yelled the man.

Sam hesitated. The people were locked up where here for a reason, and at this point Sam wasn't sure who he could trust, even if he could trust Billy himself. On the other hand, Sam knew he could use any help people were willing to offer, and at the best they could provide the right distraction so he could get to Dean.

Sam unlocked the doors. Billy didn't move.

He couldn't worry about him right now. Sam unlocked the main door and crept into the hallway.

It was empty.

Now all he had to do was--

A shot rang out through the building. Sam froze. He knew that there was only one logical place for the gunshot to have been fired and his instincts drew him down the hall to the dark stairwell outside his interrogation room.

Sam bolted down the corridor and hoped he wasn't too late.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Dean scowled as Johnson cuffed him and led him into the station. Daria was somewhere behind him; he could feel her eyes burning a hole in his back. Dean shifted uncomfortably, hating feeling so naked and exposed. The thought gave him a little shiver and he groaned when the wings did the same. Johnson gave him a funny look, but Dean was beyond caring at this point.

Johnson stopped at the top of a dark stairway that led into the basement. Dean peered down into the blackness and grimaced.

"I knew your town was backwards, but medieval?"

Sheriff Johnson didn't crack a smile. He waved Dean forward and fell behind, moving to stand with his daughter. Dean wasn't all too keen on having them both armed at his back as he walked into the abyss, but he didn't really have much of a choice. He just hoped Sam was all right.

"Get going," Johnson told him.

"You could at least uncuff me."

No answer.

Dean sighed and started down.

He was careful as he descended step by step. Lights obviously weren't in fashion, save for the single bulb that hung from the center of the room. Above a wooden stool.

Dean paused when he reached the end. He couldn't see anything else in the darkness, but he was willing to bet there were tons of gadgets and do-bobs hiding just out of site. What he could see were a bunch of grumpy and/or excited people-- he couldn't tell the difference--standing in a semi-circle around the stool.

"Oh, super. I walked into Dungeons and Dragons meets Andy Griffith."

"Cute," said one of the men in the semi-circle. He pointed to the stool. "Why don't you have a seat?"

"Eh, I think I'll stand." Dean grunted as someone from behind shoved him down on the stool. "Or I can sit."

An older man stepped forward, a guy somewhere in his sixties, who reminded Dean of Bobby if Bobby had worked behind a desk all his life instead of salvaging old beat-up cars. He wasn't dressed like the others in the room; he lacked the tan uniforms of the officers in the station, opting for a long robe that would make the wizards from Lord of the Rings jealous.

"Whoa," Dean said, barely able to hold back a laugh. "Someone needs to lay off the trips to fantasy land."

The man's lips twitched, but he didn't answer. He kept his cold face impassive as Daria and Johnson came to stand beside him.

"We found him outside the barrier," Johnson explained. "He and the other one were working some kind of spell work in the woods, not far from the site of the murders. I think they were trying to find a way to sneak this one into town unnoticed."

The older man nodded, but remained silent.

"He could be a spy," one of the woman in the circle said. "They could be trying to slip creatures through the barrier. It wouldn't be the first time."

Dean frowned. He was getting sick of the creature label. But his mind left the insult aside and locked onto something else the woman said.

"They?" he asked. "Who?"

Not surprisingly, no one answered him. Though, Dean didn't really need them to explain anything. He was starting to have the sneaking suspicion that whatever was happening here went beyond witches and Satanists.

"I saw them a couple of days ago, after the tall one spoke to you," Daria added, addressing her father. "They looked normal." She pointed to Dean's back. "He didn't have them at all."

"That doesn't make sense," Johnson said with a frown.

"Makes perfect sense," Dean muttered. "I'm a person."

Again, they ignored him.

"He's not a spy," Johnson said. "I know it. They don't operate this way. This one and the other one made no move to attack."

At this time, the older man stepped closer to Dean until he was just inches away from his face. Dean couldn't help but lean back. He hated when Castiel did that; he wasn't about to enjoy some dude with breath that smelled like loogies getting in his face.

"How did you use magic to get through the barrier?"

"I didn't use no magic," Dean said. "Waitress over there is right. I've been in town for a couple of days."

"Nothing can break through," said another person from the semi-circle. "Nothing remotely supernatural can come through the town barrier."

"How did you do it?" another asked.

"Because I'm human!"

"Could the barrier be weakening?" Johnson asked the older man.

"Not likely," he said. "The charms on this town have been sound for over a century." He cocked his head and frowned, his attention falling to Dean's chest. "What is the tattoo for?"

"Not that you'll believe me," Dean muttered, "but it stops demon possession."

"Really?" Daria suddenly seemed more interested in the conversation.

"Really." He paused. "Got a demon problem?"

When she received a dozen or so glares from the others in the room, Dean got his answer. Great. So maybe Sam was right and they were dealing with a seal, or at least something to do with Lilith and her cronies.

"And the arm?" the older man asked.

Dean glanced at the handprint that had been seared into his flesh. "I'm a hunter," he said. "I deal with a lot of crazy stuff. That? That was crazy."

Everyone's attention turned to his wings.

"I'll have to get back to you on that one."

None of the inquisitors seemed impressed. They leaned closer to one another, aside from the guy that was still too close for comfort, and chattered in hushed tones. Dean had this prickly feeling that told him whatever they decided wasn't going to be good for him.

"Terry, right?" Dean asked, watching the older man. "Look, you seem like a man in the know. You gotta understand that whatever barrier you have on this town isn't gonna last forever. Someone or something wants in here bad, and if it's that obvious to me, you can sure as hell bet it's obvious to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wants in on your little secret."

Terry seemed to consider his words, his ever piercing-eyes making Dean feel like he was naked. "And are you here for that little secret?"

Dean made a face. "No, just came to do my job."

"And what job would that be?"

"Is everyone deaf?" Dean squirmed under their vigilant glares and felt his wings twitch. "You know hunters, I'm guessing, and that means you know any hunter getting wind of the murders outside of town would be all over this gig." He stopped. Upon seeing the discomfort pass across their faces, he felt a quick pulse of heat as the realization and humiliation hit him. "Crap," he mumbled.

He was such an idiot. He should have caught the set-up. Damn, he was so busy worrying about the wings to really look at what was happening.

"Where is it?" one of the women asked.

"You used us," Dean muttered. "You did all this to get us to find your whatever the hell it is." He let out a chuckle. "You have no clue what you're protecting."

"We didn't commit those murders," Johnson was quick to add. Terry shot him a warning look. "There are people trying to break through the barrier. We need to find it before they do."

"Yeah, I bet."

"You don't understand." Johnson came forward, and Terry sneered, but he continued nonetheless. "The end of the world is going to happen. We don't know when, but we think it might be soon. Whatever we were given to protect, we can't let it fall into the wrong hands. We need to find it before they do."

"And what? You think I can find it?" Dean rolled his shoulders, still sick from the constant throbbing in the hurt wing. "How the hell did you lose it to begin with?"

"It's not lost," Terry said.

Dean had the impression this Terry guy knew a lot more than he was telling. And by the looks these folks were giving him, he knew for sure that it had something to do with angels. Lately, everything seemed to have to do with angels.

"Dad, you're far too trusting," Daria muttered.

Johnson ignored her. "Lead us to it."

"I don't know what the hell it is!"

"This isn't working," said the first woman. Dean didn't like her; she looked like a bat. "We can't use anything creative. Not here. I dare not risk taking him outside town beyond the magic barrier."

"What about the other one?" asked one of the officers. She turned her attention to Dean. "Is he like you?"

Dean wanted to tell her that Sam was far from being like him, but he opted to stay quiet. He didn't want the town's prying eyes to get a glimpse of Sam's freaky demon powers in action.

"They claim to be brothers," Johnson said. "I have the other in questioning."

"Might as well bring him down here," she said. "This one isn't going to talk."

"I'm not done with him," Terry said.

Dean twisted his wrists between the cuffs. His fist was dying to get acquainted with the guy's face right about now.

Terry pressed his lips together. "Dan, a word."

The sheriff stepped back and mingled with the semi-circle of questioners.

"How could you bring it here?" Dean heard the woman say. "We don't know who it's working for, or its agenda."

"I'm in the room," Dean called.

Johnson stole a glance at Dean before he sighed. "I pride myself on my judgment. I got this one right. I know it."

Dean wasn't sure what Johnson meant, but whatever it was, the rest of them weren't buying it. The whole little magic club started to argue in rough whispers, just out of earshot. He leaned forward to try to get a better idea what they were saying, but Daria interrupted him.

"You're bleeding."

Dean glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't really see them. But he knew that Daria was talking about his damaged wing. What he'd really like to do was saw the damn thing off, but when he realized she wasn't looking at him with fear anymore, he puffed out his chest a bit. "Well, comes with the job."

"Maybe you should get them checked out before they get infected," Daria offered, reaching over to pluck a loose feather off one of the wings. "The vet in town is really good."

Dean deflated faster than a leaking helium balloon.

"No, really. When my grandma's chickens came down with the flu, he patched them right up."

"Yeah, I think I'll pass on the chicken doctor."

"He's on his way," Daria said with a smile.

Dean moaned. "Oh come on." He didn't know how much worse this day could get.

"My dad thinks you and your brother can help us somehow. He thinks you're the ones that the town has been waiting for."

Dean raised his eyebrows at the abrupt outburst. "Why're you telling me this?"

"Because I think he's wrong." Her face suddenly grew dark. "My dad's a trusting man and he's right. He has good judgment. I don't think you're here to cause trouble, but if you are and you end up hurting my dad, I'll make sure I hurt you."

"Waitress is a firecracker."

Her smile returned. "Don't you forget it."

Dean didn't have a chance to toss out one of his one-liners when a man in a white coat descended the stairs, effectively chasing Daria away. He had a small bag in his hands, and a stethoscope secured in his coat pocket. Whoopee. The vet was here.

The people in this town had lousy timing.

He stopped when he reached the end of the stairs, his eyes widening when his gaze found Dean. Again, Dean squirmed under the constant stares and just wished the wings would go away. The gentle flap behind his back told him they had other plans.

To his credit, the doc didn't ask questions. He grabbed a small table and dragged it over to Dean and set up his little bag in the center. Dean didn't like the fact the doctor was out of sight; he liked to see what people were doing, and didn't trust a soul behind his back.

He felt the man start to prod at the wings.

"Stow the touchies!"

"Consider this a peace offering," Johnson said. "Reginald will patch you up as a show of good faith."

"The hell it is," Dean muttered, feeling--what the hell, giant tweezers?--poke at the wings. "You're afraid if I got angel buddies and you mess with me, they'll come after you."

Dean couldn't help but muse over some of the truth of that statement. If Castiel and the other angels were putting him through tests, he doubted they'd be happy when other mere mortals started getting in their way.

He heard a clank and turned his head. The vet had managed to pull out a few thorns and some long-ass splinters from the damaged wing. Another clink in the metal dish.

"This is fascinating," breathed the doctor. Dean inched a bit further away from him. "They look and feel like feathers, but if you study them closely, they are something different. Something light. Did you know that if you bend the feathers a certain way, they harden? I have never seen something like that before in an avian creature."

"I'm no freakin' bird!" But even Dean felt his curiosity piqued. He glanced over his shoulder. "Really?"

"Just finish up, Reggie," Terry said.

Dean felt the man behind him nod and speed up his pace. He didn't even flinch when another set of footsteps pounded down the stairs. However, Johnson _did_ flinch.

"Manny," he said, crossing the room to join him. "You're supposed to be with the other one."

"He's in lock up." The officer, who Dean recognized as Deputy Owens, wiped the sweat from his panicked face and took a deep breath. "I saw Reggie come down here and--"

"It's under control," Johnson said. "Go back upstairs."

Owens hesitated. "Sir, I don't think it's a good idea. Who knows what this thing will tell you to survive."

"I'm trusting my gut on this one," Johnson said.

Dean decided he liked Johnson.

By the looks on the others' faces, Dean gathered the lot of them disagreed. There were more whispers, even some pointed looks at Terry. Terry didn't say a word, but a small nod of his head seemed to give them all the reassurance they needed. Dean watched with mild apprehension as seven of the twelve started up the stairs and out of sight. The remaining five started to reposition themselves around the room, while twitchy Owens stayed to the side with Daria who Dean swore was working out how to skin him if he dared breathe on her dad. Plucky the vet remained behind him, quieter than normal, which did nothing to comfort Dean. The whole room felt like it dropped a few degrees.

This wasn't good.

When Terry turned away and walked to the desk to pick up something that looked suspiciously long and sharp, Dean leaned forward and whispered to Johnson. "Come on, man. Throw me a bone."

The sheriff hesitated, stealing a glance at Terry. The older man continued to hunch over the desk. Johnson turned back to Dean.

It killed Dean to take a page out of Sam's book, but he wasn't liking where this whole scenario was heading. "Whatever you have--witches, Satanists, demons, monsters--this is our thing. We can help you," he said, squirming as a cold ointment was slathered on the skin under his wings. "I'm either this guy you've been waiting for or not. But if I am, you should be trusting me, right?"

The conflict marred Johnson's face. He looked to his daughter, and then to Owens. Nether seemed to give him the reassurance he needed. Defeated, he sighed and shook his head at Dean.

Dean frowned. "Just who wears the pants in this town?"

Johnson's eyes darkened. After a moment of hesitation, he stepped forward and matched Dean's intense gaze. "We were given instructions to protect something here, something that could be our saving grace. Terry's right. Only two beings can come and claim it. If neither comes, then we wait for the signal and hand it over to the angels once they walk among us again." He pressed his lips together, ignoring the glares from the others in the room, sans Daria who remained as impassive as ever. "Demons are in the woods. They torment us whenever we leave town. They kill our people. We need help."

Dean felt his stomach flop. He wasn't about to tell them angels _were_ walking among them, and they weren't all they were cracked up to be. Worse, no way were demons just going to pack up and leave until they got what they wanted. This town was screwed.

Johnson must have read the hopelessness in his face. His lips thinned; the fire faded from his eyes.

"I got some friends in high places. Maybe they can help."

Castiel and his crew weren't exactly friends. Hell, Dean couldn't stand his loud-mouth buddy. But it wasn't exactly a lie. He knew angels would be all over this place like white on rice given the chance.

"Can't you see he's lying?" Owens protested, pointing. "He's just conning us!"

"Manny, enough," said Johnson.

"No." Manny Owens broke away from Daria and walked across the room, his fingers strumming the area above his holster. "He's playing games. That's what they do. He's not an angel. He's one of them, trying to trick us."

"I'm no demon."

"Games," Owens insisted.

"There will be no more games." For the first time since the little inquisition had started, Terry smiled. He held up the long rod, which Dean now identified as a cattle prod, and gave it a flick.

The wings bristled behind Dean.

"Dad," Daria said, sounding shocked. "You can't be serious."

"Terry," Johnson said. "This isn't necessary. If he's really an emissary for the ang--"

"It's over," Terry said. He took a deep, controlled breath and stepped forward.

Dean tensed and sat straighter on the stool. As his adrenaline spiked, he felt his heart start to pound harder and faster. Though he was handcuffed, Dean knew he could still take Terry if it came down to a fight.

"Can't we talk 'bout this?" Dean asked.

Terry activated the cattle prod and gave a slight nod.

Dean set his jaw and readied himself.

A flash of a syringe caught the corner of his eye. Even before Dean had time to think about it, he jumped off his seat and kicked back, sending the legs of the wooden stool crashing into the vet. Reggie cried out and stumbled, but didn't fall. He came at Dean with the needle raised and ready to strike his shoulder. Dean pivoted and the undamaged wing, either on instinct or its own, arched out and back, smacking Reggie hard across the face.

He hit the floor with a thud.

Terry, as well as the others positioned around the room, only stopped for a split second. Then, the room was filled with the sound of a half dozen cocking guns.

Dean raised his hands the best he could with the cuffs still binding them together. "Easy," he said.

Reggie the vet was out cold. Dean hadn't realized the amount of power behind the wings. He could see that Reggie had some minor swelling along the side of his nose and under his eye.

Something beyond the swelling caught Dean's attention. A set of rosary beads poked out from under the vet's robes. Very familiar looking beads.

He frowned and started to crouch, still keeping his hands raised. He tried his best to flatten his wings, while simultaneously keeping an eye on Terry and his electric rod.

"Up!" yelled Johnson. "Get away from him."

Dean arched his eyebrows and held one hand palm open as he used the other to grab the beads. Slowly, he rose to his feet, still willing himself to look as passive as possible. He gave the beads a quick scan and huffed.

"Put those down," Terry said firmly. "Come quietly, and we won't have much trouble."

"What are these?" Dean asked, ignoring Terry. He felt the rest of them stepping cautiously toward him, closing in the circle. The more they cornered him like an animal, the more he felt like one. He did his best to ignore the odd flutter growing in his stomach and focus on the problem at hand. At least he still had one ace up his sleeve.

"They're rosary beads, Einstein," said Daria.

He smirked. "Those are sure some funky looking rosary beads." He gave her a pointed look.

She grew quiet.

Dean clutched the beads like they were his last lifeline. The people in the room were obviously afraid of him, but that wouldn't keep them away for long. As soon as they had the chance, they would trap him and it would be over.

"I'm gonna take a wild guess that these are supposed to be on you all the time," he said. "Or else Reggie here wouldn't have them clipped to his belt the way he did."

No one answered, but their faces told all. He grinned.

Dean swung the beads, watching every member of the basement cult inch closer. He turned his attention to Johnson and read through the deep lines in his face.

If Johnson was going to trust him, now would be a good time.

"What do they do?" Dean asked him.

Once again, Johnson hesitated, though the discomfort was short-lived. "Everyone in our group gets them for protection when we leave town," he said. Owens swore at him, but Johnson refused to stop. "The regular townsfolk have their special charms, but we carry these."

"Everyone?"

Johnson nodded.

"Well, someone got sloppy."

Johnson frowned. "What do you mean?"

"My brother found one of these in the creek." Dean took the rosary and examined them, curious at the arcane symbols that were carved in each bead. "I dunno, though. I didn't get a good look, but the one we got looked different than this."

Johnson exchanged a nervous look with Terry who, surprisingly, seemed to mirror his sentiment. "What do you mean?" Johnson asked.

"I'm saying you might want to check your buddies for their beads, if you get what I mean." Dean jangled the beads once.

"You can't be serious," one of the women said.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm way past jokes," Dean muttered.

"Beads out," Terry said, his face filled with a fire Dean didn't think was possible. "Everyone. Now."

Terry took his out and slammed them on the rollaway table the vet had used to hold his bag and supplies. Johnson was the next. He reached into his pocket and pulled them out, only to hide them from sight again.

The two of them turned to the rest. Two of the five people that had formed a circle around him reached into their uniforms and withdrew near identical beads. One of the others fumbled, and looked like he was going to pass out, but let out a sigh of relief when he found his. Another brought his from under his shirt, while the last took hers from a pouch on her belt.

Terry glared at Owens and Daria. While they were distracted, Dean edged away from the unconscious vet and slid closer to the table. His fingers poked around the surface until he found the scalpel that Reggie has used to cut out the splinters in the wings. He curved his wrist to keep it out of view before he brought his hands down in front of his chest. One of the wings bent over to cover his actions as he began to jimmy the lock.

"Show your beads," Terry told them.

"What about the others?" Daria asked. "I know what you did. You sent them to go get the truck to transport him out of here." She motioned with her hand to Dean without looking at him. "What if one of them lost it?"

Terry didn't break his stony gaze, but did take out a small remote. With one click, a screen came on that showcased the back of the station where the seven stood waiting by a large transport van. Dean wasn't too keen on what kind of fun-time toys might be awaiting him in that van. Just the idea made his mouth go dry as flashes of images from Hell assaulted his mind.

"Jake," Terry said, talking into his collar. "Everyone's beads. I need to see them."

The seven took turns showing their beads to Terry. Dean worked even faster.

"Thank you," Terry said. He ended the transmission. "Daria, Manny. Your beads."

Neither seemed interested in showing their rosary beads to Terry.

"Daria, please," Johnson said, his voice nearly cracking.

Daria sighed and reached down her blouse and pulled the beads into view. Johnson exhaled and smiled.

Dean worked faster, wincing as the metal dug into his wrists. He needed to get the stupid lock to snap.

"Owens?" Terry asked.

Owens patted down his pockets and his chest. Letting out a nervous laugh, he shrugged. "I must have left them upstairs."

Dean heard the clink in the cuffs. He let out the breath he'd been holding and kept the unhooked cuffs loose on his wrists. Quietly, he started to move towards Terry and Johnson.

"Manny," Johnson said, his voice filled with disappointment. "Tell me you didn't."

"I didn't!" He wiped his brow again. "I just…I must have left them at my desk."

"Manny." Terry's voice was cold.

"I swear. In my desk."

"Then we can go upstairs and get them."

Owens turned pale. "Sure. Uh, sure."

By this time, the circle had turned their attention on Owens, leaving Dean to his own devices. He kept inching closer to Terry and the desk right behind him, intent on finding anything to help defend himself. He always had the knife that Johnson missed in his search, but Dean could use something a whole lot more useful than his box cutter.

"Wait!" he shouted. "The other one! That's why I don't have it. The other one must have taken it. He didn't find it. He ripped it off me."

Daria moved away from Owens and ducked behind her father, her face filled with disgust. Terry and Johnson started toward Owens, their backs exposed to Dean. He knew he could take them both right now, easy, but he couldn't take the entire room. He scanned the basement quickly for anything that would give him a chance.

"Manny, how could you?" one of the group members asked. "We made an oath. We swore to never turn."

"They're-they're messing with you. All of you." He looked to the sheriff. "Dan, they got you good, and you're letting them sucker you in. I've got no connections with demons or monsters. They're the monsters. They're--what the hell is he doing?"

Dean froze as all eyes turned to him.

Johnson's eyes filled with painful betrayal while Terry's blazed. The older man leapt at him with the cattle prod, but none of that mattered after what happened next.

Owens's faced twisted and he raised his gun toward the four of them. Before Dean knew what he was doing, he jumped in front of Terry, knocking the cattle prod out of his hands as he moved, and grabbed Johnson and Daria. His wings fanned out to their longest width, covering all of them as the shot echoed through the basement.

There was heat, a burning like hot coals, and a ping that rattled his bones. He let out a deep breath and shook, feeling weak and oddly light. He stumbled forward and grabbed onto the desk, waiting for the blood to flow.

It never did. Slowly, his wings retracted and folded partway down his back. When he regained some strength, he turned around to find the entire room in shock. White-faced, they stared at him, some so anxious he thought they might pass out.

Owens was shaking so hard he dropped his smoking gun.

Dean looked down. The bullet rested at his feet, dented as if it had hit a steel wall.

He had a sick feeling in his stomach.

That feeling only worsened when he saw Sam, staring at him like all the rest, as he stood, gun drawn, on the stairwell.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Sam stopped midway on the steps. He would have figured he'd been seeing things if not for the identical reactions from everyone in the room. The bullet fired from Deputy Owens' gun had been a direct hit. It should have pierced Dean's wings, or at least his shoulder, as well as hitting whoever might have been directly in front of him. Instead, it lay at his feet while Dean remained perfectly fine.

The shock wore off quickly. Sam kept his gun aimed at Owens as he descended the stairs. The others, also breaking out of their reverie, pulled their guns on the deputy. None of them seemed overly concerned with his presence, aside from the older robed man beside Dean.

His discerning eyes studied Sam's every move as the others surrounded Owens. "You're the other one?"

Sam looked to Dean. When Dean gave a loose shrug of approval, Sam nodded.

The man waved his hand for him to join them.

Sam descended the rest of the stairs and stepped down on the cold cement. The other officers in the room had now taken an interest in him, or he should say his back, and even seemed disappointed when they didn't find what they hoped to see.

Sam rolled his shoulders. Their stares made him uncomfortable.

"Let me see them," the man said.

Sam frowned.

"The freak rosary beads," Dean said.

Sam understood. He dug into his pocket and withdrew the beads, tossing them to the man. The darkness on his face intensified as he studied the symbols on the beads. That darkness grew into a hot anger, and forgetting Sam completely, he crossed the room to shove the beads into Owens' face.

"Old magic." His voice had a bite that startled Sam. "Very old magic. How did you get this?"

"Terry." Dean whispered out of the side of his mouth as Sam came to stand beside him. "He runs this town or something."

Owens kept his chin high despite the semi-circle that surrounded him. Everyone was so intently focused on Owens, including Dean, that none of them paid any attention to Sam as he stooped to pick up the dented bullet.

He ran it over in his palm, trying to come up with any logical explanation that would put his mind at ease. He knew he had none.

Instead, he slipped it into his pocket and turned back to Owens.

"You overwrote the protection magic on your beads," Terry said, more fierce than before. "You betrayed us. Why would you try to break the barrier?"

"They'll protect us when the end comes," Owens said. "We give them what they want and they'll go away. We'll be free to do whatever we want." He let out a nervous laugh. "Can't you see that is the best way to go? They torment us every day. We're prisoners in our own town."

"So, you're making deals with demons?" Sam asked.

Dean snorted. "Do you know how stupid that is? Dude, you're looking at a free pass straight to Hell."

Owens paled even more.

"Take him upstairs," Johnson said. "Make sure it's a secure private room. I want people inside and outside. I'll be questioning him myself."

One of the officers from the group nodded. They grabbed Owens, cuffed him, and pushed him to the stairs.

"Take Reggie with you, too," Terry said. "Get him some treatment and make sure he's comfortable. Johnson, you and your daughter stay with me. The rest of you can leave. I need some time with our guests."

Sam shifted his weight and set his jaw as he watched the group leave. He tried to catch Dean's eye, but he wouldn't look at him.

"Where did you find these?" Terry asked.

"Devil's Creek. Not far from the murder site."

Terry nodded. "It's old dark magic. It's lucky you found that."

Johnson had a grin on his face. For a second, Sam thought he looked proud. Maybe his shoddy search job hadn't been an accident after all.

"You don't think Owens was involved with the murders, do you?' Daria asked.

"Most likely," Sam said. When he saw her lips twitch, he offered her a supportive hand to the shoulder. "I'm sorry about your friend."

She nodded. "I know. Thank you." She sighed and squeezed his hand.

Dean glared at him.

"Sheriff Johnson believes you are the two that are meant to claim what my family has protected for generations. If you truly are the ones, you'll know where to go and what it is." Terry paused. "Do you?"

Sam exchanged an uneasy look with Dean. They both had no idea what was so important about this town and what it had to do with angels and demons. Sam theorized the place could hold a weapon or maybe an artifact. Maybe it was an important seal in and of itself. But the truth was that neither one of them knew for sure.

"We don't know," Sam said. "We're not the ones you've been waiting for. I'm sorry."

Johnson shook his head and stared at Dean. "I don't get it. I was so sure."

"Like we told you, we're just two guys. This," Dean said, motioning behind his back to the stationary wings, "we don't know what those are and why they got through your barrier. But we came for the murder, nothing else."

Terry nodded. "Let's make sure this complication never happens again."

Sam looked at Dean. He figured that was the best apology they were going to get. Judging by Dean's annoyed expression, he knew he was right.

"None of this solves our problem," Daria said. "Though, I am so getting one of those." She pointed to Dean's tattoo.

Dean grinned, moving the cord that held his amulet so he could give the tattoo a pat. That was probably the most positive move he'd ever shown the tattoo since they'd gotten them.

"You know, the demons are not going to stop until they take whatever you have hidden in this town," Sam said.

Johnson nodded, grim-faced.

Sam had considered trekking back into the woods and trying to exorcise the entire group, trapping them one by one, but he didn't know if he'd built the stamina for something that extensive yet. Never mind trying to sneak away from Dean. Besides, he knew Dean would never approve even if he had been the one to take on Samhain all by himself.

Dean sighed. "The demons, they're gonna just keep pounding you until you cave."

"Unless they think it's gone."

Dean leaned back and gave Sam a questioning look, one of those mildly condescending looks that never failed to get under his skin. "What, like trick 'em?"

"Exactly."

Sam didn't know if his plan would work, but it was the best he could come up with on short notice. They all knew by now that the problems in this town had nothing to do with witches or Satanists. The demons, along with people like Owens, committed that murder with trademarks from witches and Satanists hoping angels or hunters would show. Maybe they had even expected Sam and Dean to be the ones to come to Dixville and wanted to use them specifically to break into town and walk away with whatever prize was hidden inside. From what Billy told him, he seemed to gather as much.

The only way they would leave these people alone was if they thought it had worked.

"Before we continue, you know whatever is said can't leave the room." Sam surveyed them to make sure they understood. "Demons will do anything to get information from you. You can't ever leave this town again."

"I never do," said Terry.

Dean frowned. "Why's that?"

"Terry's family founded this town. His great-great grandmother, Martha Jackson--she's the one," Johnson said. "She had a vision and created all the protection charms for whatever is sacred here, while Eddie built up the town. No one knows what it is. Just the Jackson family."

"I know too much," Terry mumbled.

"You're not gonna tell us, are you?" Dean asked.

Terry shook his head. "No."

Sam didn't think he would. He turned to Daria and Johnson. "It'll only have a shot at working if no one knows, and since you're in this conversation now--"

"I know," Johnson said. "But I know my duty is to this town first."

Daria sighed. "Mine too."

Sam didn't need to remind them that this wasn't a foolproof plan. There was a heaviness to the air, one that spoke of pain and suffering and of loss, not just from the recent years that ticked by, but over a century's worth of heavy burdens and secrets. Their grim faces carried that history with them every moment of every day. And now Sam was asking them to add to it.

"You'll tell the townspeople that angels came. Angels went to the designated spot and took what has been hidden here. I can't guarantee it will stop the demons, but it should divert their attention elsewhere until you can come up with something better.

"Doesn't that put you at risk?" Daria asked. "They'll be hunting you."

"They already are," Sam said.

"That isn't going to work," Terry said.

"It has to." Sam gaze's fell to one of Dean's feathers as it rested on the tabletop. "Reports of a winged man around town are bound to surface. Say he was one of the beings you were expecting. Make up the rest to fit your town's needs. If the whole town believes this, the demons won't be able to break through and find the truth. Even if they kidnap one of your people, the lie will be their reality. The only people they can't get to are the three of you. In the end, they will start to chase whatever they think has what they want."

He heard Dean groan beside them. "Super. Like we don't have enough problems."

Johnson sighed. "I suppose it's worth a shot, but I don't even know your names."

"Probably better not to know," Sam said.

Terry gave a curt nod. "The less information, the better." He paused, and then finally broke his rough exterior to shake both of their hands. "It would be best for you to pack up and be on your way."

Sam couldn't agree more. The more space they put between themselves and this town, the better. Plus, he knew they had bigger issues to worry about at the moment.

He glanced at Dean's wings. They were silent for now, but the questions they carried continued to loom over the both of them. Once, Sam had thought they were a distraction. Now he was beginning to worry that they were much more.

Sam turned to the lone feather on the table. When he reached out to touch it, he froze, stunned as he watched the feather flicker like light before it curled in on itself and vanished in a puff of white smoke. Dean didn't seem to notice.

Sam had the sinking feeling that this problem was only going to get worse.

Johnson and Daria had started to clean up and head up the stairs. They suggested that Sam borrow the van parked in the back of the station, after Terry dismissed the people he had guarding it. That way Sam could hide Dean long enough for them to grab their stuff, pick up the Impala, and sneak out of town.

Sam held back his concerns and buried them for the moment. He just had one last thing to take care of first.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

He was gone. When Sam had re-entered the cellblock, Billy was gone.

The prostitute and her client were no longer around for him to ask any questions, and Tina looked like she was ready to deck him for what he'd done. Only with an intervention by Johnson did he manage to avoid a black eye and a couple of broken ribs.

But Billy…Billy knew. He knew all about the demons and their plans to break the barrier. He knew how they were trying to manipulate the townsfolk. Sam wasn't sure if he had been working for the demons or if he had just been caught in the middle, but either way he was gone, and that knowledge had disappeared with him.

"You'd better hope he doesn't spill," Dean had said.

Sam had thought about it all the way back to the motel. All it would take would be for Billy to run to the demons and tell them all about Sam and Dean being in town. According to Billy, they already knew and had anticipated he and Dean hitting Dixville, but something made him immensely uncomfortable thinking the demons could have Billy right now.

Billy and all of his complications faded to the back of Sam's mind once they had reached the motel. When he had entered the room, all traces of Dean's wing problem were gone. Not a single stray feather could be found in any corner. He wondered if Terry had sent someone to clean up after them, or if the maid that worked in the building had grudgingly cleaned it herself. Sam, on the other hand, had witnessed what happened to one of Dean's stray feathers in the station. Part of him held the belief that was exactly what happened in the motel.

He had refused to dwell on it. Sam had packed up their remaining gear while Dean waited in the back of the van. Hearing his whiny complaints the whole way there was a small price to pay for Dean secure and safe and a few moments of peace as he prepared to leave the motel and the town behind.

That had been three hours ago.

Now, he stood outside the Impala, leaning against the driver's side, off the side of the road by a long stretch of woods. On the horizon, he could see the outskirts of the town, and wondered what Johnson, Daria, and Terry were doing, and how the town was dealing with its latest "bombshell." It wasn't fair that more people were sucked in this cat and mouse game between angels and demons. He resented it more and more as each day passed. Why did people have to suffer? Why did he and Dean have to deal with their mess?

Demons were everywhere. He knew they were in the hills and in the densely wooded areas that hugged the town's boundaries. That barrier wouldn't last forever, and when it finally broke, the innocents here would be living Hell on earth.

If Sam could only hone his powers, become better and stronger, maybe one day he could come back and save them.

He glanced at his watch. Dean was taking a long time doing his thing.

He looked over his shoulder to the roadside trees. He heard the distinct chirping of birds in the treetops, and some minor rustling in the bushes below.

He sighed and turned back to stare at the pavement. He hadn't been too keen at stopping in the forest so close to town, not with the demons out there and Dean altered. He wasn't sure what would happen if Dean came face to face with a demon in his current state. At this point, Sam didn't know if Dean was still changing. The glamour spell could have acted as a catalyst or maybe all the magic surrounding the town had caused a reaction. He couldn't shake the thought that maybe Uriel was right--Dean did remember Hell, and something had happened down there that was only manifesting now.

There was also the reality that whatever happened to Dean was ongoing, despite any magical barriers and spells they encountered. No matter the cause, Sam knew that Dean was continuing to transform, and the idea scared him. A demon could spark a reaction that might take Dean away forever.

Sam wouldn't allow that. Whatever was happening, Sam would find a way to reverse it. He'd prove to Dean that he could.

There was a soft rapping behind him.

Sam straightened and pushed off the car. Dean stood on the other side of the Impala, arms outstretched, eyebrows raised, waiting for the coming appraisal.

"No wings?" Dean asked.

"Not that I can see." Dean looked as normal as he could. He had used the glamour spell, but at least this time he was minus all the female amenities. Sam frowned. "Wait, you're not that tall."

Dean grinned.

"I don't think Bobby would be impressed that you're using his spell this way."

"Who said anything about Bobby?"

Sam snorted. "Right. Like I don't know where you got the spell in the first place."

Dean's face puckered with discomfort with a twinge of guilt.

Sam just shook his head. "Anyway, it shouldn't take too long to make it to Bobby's from here," he said, resting his arms on the roof of the Impala. "If we start now, we could make good time."

"Bobby's? Why're we going to Bobby's?"

"You're asking why?" He nudged his chin toward Dean. "He has to have some ancient lore on something to do with wings."

"He doesn't. I asked."

"So, he knows."

Dean rubbed his face and glanced away. "Not exactly."

"Not exact--You didn't tell him?"

"No telling Bobby." He turned away from Sam and walked to the trunk. Sam wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.

"Dean--"

"No."

"Why?" he asked, coming to stand beside Dean. "You're afraid he'll think you're a freak? Now you know how I feel."

Dean glared at him and popped the trunk.

The words had come out wrong, and while Sam didn't regret saying them, he wished his tone had been softer. He'd spent his entire life feeling like a freak only to learn he was one. He had to deal with the secret looks, the stares, and the flickers of horror that washed over Dean's face every time something happened. He was subjected to Dean's constant and ever-vigilant and suspicious eye, like he was just waiting for Sam to screw up.

He knew Sam was a freak. He could never deny that with a straight face. So maybe Sam felt vindicated that Dean was experiencing a taste of his own medicine. But even if Sam did relish the payback, he also didn't want to see his brother saddled with the constant pain he felt from carrying that acute difference from day to day.

"I'm not going to treat you like a freak, Dean," he said softly. "I've been down that road."

Dean didn't look up. He kept fumbling for nothing in the trunk, stopping to reload his gun. But Sam thought he saw some of the hardness in Dean's face soften, even if he was too proud to admit his appreciation to Sam personally, as well as any of the associated guilt that came with it.

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and watched Dean work. When the silence grew uncomfortable again, he decided on a different topic. "What do you make of all this?"

"Make of all what?"

"What the town is hiding? It has to be something big."

Dean lifted his head. He had that disgusted look on his face that Sam knew could never be good. "I dunno, Sammy. But I get this feeling in my gut, you know? Like whatever we missed is gonna haunt us. Like we just walked out on a game changer or something."

Sam wondered what it could be and if Dean was right. Maybe this was another one that got away, and maybe in the end they would pay for it.

He swallowed hard, his fist closing around the dented bullet in his pocket. "What about the station? What do you think happened back there? With the gun shot?"

Sam was positive that Dean's face paled. "I dunno. Ricocheted off something?"

"You don't think it had anything to do with your wings?"

Dean turned and stopped to glare at him. "First, not my wings. Second…come _on_. I get beat up by a freakin' tree, and you think the feathers go all Man of Steel on a bullet?" He blew a raspberry and buried himself lower in the trunk. "It ricocheted. End of story."

"Dean."

"I said end of story."

Sam pressed his lips together and felt the tension return to his jaw. He nodded and shifted his weight, trying to release some of the pent up tension inside. If Dean wanted to be difficult, he could be difficult. But it didn't erase what happened and it didn't make the anxiety over the entire case any less in Sam's mind.

"So, what do we do now?" Sam asked.

Dean loaded the clip and tossed the gun into the trunk. "As soon as we can get in touch with Castiel, he can toast these things."

"We don't even know what caused them, though I think we both know that this has something to do with the angels or your time in Hell or something like that."

"Still could be the Trickster."

Sam imagined it could, though as each day passed, he started to believe that possibility less and less.

He hesitated, knowing that the suggestion he was about to propose had zero chance at being considered, but he wanted to try again anyway.

"We could call Ruby."

"We are especially not calling Ruby." Dean's intense glare screamed end of discussion.

"Then what do you want to do, Dean? Because this can't go on forever."

Dean straightened, his face stony and determined. "It won't. Cas will make them go. He can raise me from the dead; he can get rid of these wings."

Sam nodded, but he wasn't convinced. In fact, he didn't think they could trust any of the angels at all.

Through the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean pull out the car keys. "I got a few more things to secure back here." With that, he tossed the keys to Sam.

Sam snatched them and hesitated, staying beside Dean for another moment. Whatever was on his mind, he wasn't sharing, and Sam didn't think he was going to talk any time soon. He still wanted to ask Dean about his time in Hell, to see if Uriel was right, but he knew this wasn't the time. It would come soon. Dean would have to come clean with him eventually.

He flipped the keys over in his hand and started to the driver's side, trying not to think of his own burdens and secrets, and the long road ahead.

* * *

Dean watched Sam stroll back to the front of the car and open the driver's side door. As he disappeared into the Impala, Dean let out a heavy sigh and bowed his head, bracing himself on the outer edges of the trunk.

These were the times that Dean wished he could read people's minds. Often, he thought what Sam said and what Sam thought were completely different. Sam was so closed off to him, so secretive, that it tore him not to know what he was really thinking and feeling, and how Sam might actually see him. Maybe Dean didn't really want to know.

The wing deal changed things. There were just too many changes: Sam and his demon blood, his boost in powers, Ruby, the coming Apocalypse, the angels breathing down their necks…It was all too much. He wished that they could go back to the way things used to be, just him and Sam, hunting ghosts and monsters.

He slammed the trunk and felt the invisible wings flutter behind him.

Dean started a slow stroll to the passenger's side of his car. Demons. Angels. Every damn thing in between. He resisted the urge to look back at the town, knowing that if he did, he would be faced with a barrage of doubts and questions that he just couldn't handle.

The town could keep their secrets and shove them. In the meantime, he had a job to do and a body to fix.

As for what lay hidden deep inside the old town, that would remain a mystery for now. Though Dean knew that one day, and one day soon, they would find out exactly what Dixville was concealing, and when they did, he hoped that he and Sam--hell, the world--would be ready to face the resulting chaos that was sure to follow.

* * *

**End Note**: Thank you reading. I hope you enjoyed the story. Since this is part of a series, I didn't wrap everything up at the end and some of the unanswered questions will be answered as the series progresses. The series takes place over the course of Season 4 and Season 5, and I know many of you (as well as myself) had a hard time with the brothers' relationship in S4, but I will be sticking to canon as closely as possible in the series, which includes the tough spots in S4. If that is not your cup of tea, there's no hard feelings if you don't stick with the series. If you do stick around, I hope you'll enjoy the ride. I'll label each fic or ficlet as_ Playing the Angel_ so you know. Thank you again for reading. :)


End file.
